


A Netflix Exclusive

by beaebex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, Smut, Unplanned Pregnancy, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaebex/pseuds/beaebex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's first time redux.   Based on the prompt:  “Imagine you intercept April’s interactions with Castiel – you take him home instead.  Smut ensues.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A Netflix Exclusive** __  
 _  
_

 

“Matthew?”

This was not a promising blind date.  You were already adverse to trusting the romantic wiles of complete strangers but, foolhardy as you were, an exception was made when a friend promised Mister Perfect.   Matthew Watterson was an architect and family man, recently divorced, late thirties, considerably older than you but a good match to your “brooding old lady countenance”.  The foundation of the date wasn’t the most flattering but seeing as you had spent the past few months with no company save for Netflix, you figured a blind date with the architect wouldn’t be awful.  You were meeting late afternoon at a café two blocks from your apartment.  You promised to wear a purple scarf and he would don a red sweatshirt. 

Naturally, upon arriving, you bee-lined for the first red hoodie you saw. 

The subject of the Great Matthew Watterson Supposition stood there, awkwardly leaning over the café rail.   He was slowly reaching towards an abandoned plate of nachos when you interrupted him.   He snapped his hand back quickly, stood upright and a little bit flustered.   You jumped at his motion.  If you didn’t know any better, you would assume he wasn’t expecting company.  You attempted to ease the moment with a smile.  He just continued to stare at you, a bit worried like he expected to admonished.  You blinked back at him.  

“Um, I’m Y/N,” you said.  “Purple scarf.”  You grabbed the material and laughed awkwardly, waving it at him.  His expression did not change.  You grimaced at your own ridiculousness.   You were already a bit nervous for meeting a stranger never mind the revelation of his actual handsomeness.   You looked away from him, hoping you could behave relatively sane if not pierced by that maddeningly blue gaze.   Your friend hadn’t adequately braced you for this moment.   In fact, the opposite was delivered, the admittance Matthew Watterson was not much on the eyes but a personality you would adore.   It was thus far proving untrue.  Dark hair and blue eyes, tall and lean and strong-shouldered, Matthew Watterson had that movie-star charm with none of its resonance.  He was a seeming dolt in the social grace department.   And that was coming from you. 

 _Maybe he’s nervous_ , you told yourself.  You were here so it was worth the effort to find out more. 

“So, um,” you tried again, crossing your arms.  “You want to get some lunch?” 

His expression changed then,  a concentrated wonder. 

“Lunch?” he repeated.  “I don’t… I don’t have any money.”

“Oh.”  You were expecting to pay your own way but _this_ was a little weird.  Still, you shrugged it off.  He wasn’t scoring many points but you’d give him a chance to compensate.  Maybe he’d forgotten his wallet in a nervous flurry and couldn’t find the courage to explain.   You smiled gently.  “Don’t worry about it.  I’ll pay.” 

“That’s very kind of you,” he replied. 

“It’s not a problem,” you said.  You crossed your arms, a bad habit when nerves beckoned.   Your shoulders had knotted in tension and your hands were a bit clammy.  You breathed in and smiled again.   “Um, come on then, I guess.”   You circled the black gate separating the cafe from the street.   He followed you, looking over his shoulder like he expected something to happen.  You focussed on getting to your seat, a hostess leading you to an outdoor table in the far corner.  You settled down, removing your scarf in the warmth of the day.  Menus were placed on your table but you occupied yourself with arranging your coat and scarf, draping them over the back your chair.  You placed your purse on the ground between you and the café wall.   When you finally faced forward, Matthew was staring at the closed menu.   His fingers curled around the edge of the table.   He really did look tense.  

“I know blind dates can be a bit awkward,” you said.  His gaze lifted.   You swallowed your nerves, heightened by the intensity of that blue stare.   “But there’s nothing to be afraid of.  Not with me at least.   And I don’t think you’re a serial killer or anything.”  You needed to stop making serial killer jokes on the first date.  Matthew’s expression was a bit odd, his brow creasing and head tipping.   But there was a faint smile beneath it, slowly blossoming through the tension.

“I’m definitely not that,” he said. 

“Good to know.  Good to know,” you replied.  You opened a menu and buried your face inside.  You grimaced behind your shield then told yourself to calm down.   He didn’t seem to hate you yet.   You lowered the menu again.   “So, uh, what are you—” 

It was then you saw _another_ red hoodie.  The accompanying person looked impatient, a late-thirties man glancing around bemusedly and tapping his foot.  His sandy-blonde hair and well-washed sweatshirt better matched the description you were given.   Of course, the personality you were promised still left much to be desired.   His impatience rippled through him and he even kicked a post in frustration.  You watched him stalk off, shoving his phone in his pocket.   You were fairly certain that was Matthew Watterson.   You spent a moment celebrating the bullet you dodged there, witnessing for yourself his lack of patience and violent flare.   There was still one good question, though.

Who the hell was sitting across from you?

You looked at the blue-eyed stranger.  He was skimming the menu, his shoulders hunched.   You thought about his position when you first saw him, leaning over the railing and reaching for food.   His clothes were worn, everything about his appearance a little bit battered.

 _Great_.  You avoided a blind date with a maniac only to pick up a homeless guy.  God, you really needed your own freaking sitcom.

You closed your menu, placed it on the table.  The stranger blinked up at you like he expected a comment.   When he saw your expression had changed from nervousness to a dry regard, he sat straight.

“You’re not Matthew Watterson, are you?” you asked.  He blinked at you and then looked down, ashamed.   He climbed out of his seat, refusing to meet your eye.

“I’m sorry,” he said, making to leave.  It was a heartbreaking retreat, the absolute shame in his expression speaking of a tender spirit.   He wasn’t the type of person to con innocent women for lunches, not usually at least.  You reached out and grabbed his wrist, halting him.   He looked back at you like he expected the worse.   God, this guy had seen some shit.  You could tell just looking at him. 

“Please,” you said, gesturing to the seat across from you.   You smiled easier than before.  “I did say I’d buy you lunch, didn’t I?”

* * *

 

He told you his name was Clarence.  At least, he tried.  He kept speaking with that same uneven shakiness, eyes darting from here to there.   You cocked an eyebrow and demanded the truth.   As a plate of steaming hot soup was placed in front of him, he clearly felt obligated to provide that much honesty.

“Castiel,” he said.  The café and street were both noisy so you didn’t quite hear.

“Castile?” you asked, leaning back as your sandwich was placed in front of you.   “Like the city?”

“Castiel,” he repeated. 

“Oh!”  Unusual name.  “Well that’s sort of pretty.”   Some men could be so touchy with titles like _pretty_ , masculinity seemingly threatened by the faintest degree of sweetness. You knew from experience and momentarily regretted the comment.  But Castiel smiled at you, the sharpness of his blue gaze having softened to something warm and kind. 

“Thank you,” he said.  “I like it.” 

“Then why do you go by Clarence?”

He stirred his soup idly.

“Someone called me that,” he said.  “Once.  A long time ago.  I’ve been keeping a… low profile.  I suppose it just occurred to me.” 

“Low profile, huh?” you asked.  “Sure you’re not a serial killer?”   It was a joke but he looked at you quite seriously.

“I’m not,” he said.  “I wouldn’t hurt you.  Or anyone here.” 

It was a little intense but genuine to a fault.   You nodded, smiling weakly.

“Well, that’s good.”  You watched as he ate.  He tried to be slow but you could see he was hungry.  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Castiel.” 

* * *

 

You parted ways after lunch.  Castiel thanked you for your kindness again.  He then ambled down the street, glancing every which way and never ceasing his personal assessments.  You shook your head, watching him retreat.   This wasn’t a blind date you were about to forget. 

You went home for the evening, curled up with old reliable Netflix for a few hours.  It was a fairly warm day until sundown.   The sky clouded as the sun set, blooming an odd orange cast across the sky.   You fell asleep to the bristling wind against your windows and awoke to thunder and rain, lightning breaking the night sky.  The casements were blown wide, rain pouring all over your desk.  It was thankfully empty but you launched to your feet, rushing forward and slamming them closed.   Your side windows overlooked the alleyway.  As you secured them tightly, blocking out the cold, motion caught your eye below.  You glanced down, watched a figure trudge through the slush and grime, shivering in the freezing night storm.  A flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the alleyway, affording you a glimpse of red. 

_Ah, fuck._

You didn’t bother with boots or a coat, just snatched an umbrella and rushed down the corridor in flats and a summer dress.  You exited through the side door, bursting into the alleyway.   Your rescue went a bit wayside, unfortunately.  Castiel sat on the same doorstep you opened.  Upon your rather dramatic fling, he went barrelling to the ground.

“Oh, shit!  I’m so sorry!”

He was rolling onto his knees by the time you reached him.  His hood had fallen back, exposing him to the rain and chill.  He was already soaked to the bone, though.  And now you had muddied him all over.  You rushed to his side, splashing through puddles and crouching low. 

“Are you all right?” you asked. 

“I’m fine,” he answered gruffly, pushing himself upright.  “You shouldn’t be out here.  It’s cold.” 

Did he just—even when he was—

You looked at him and smiled sadly, patting his shoulder. 

“Come on,” you said.  “Come inside until the rain’s gone.”  He looked at you with a blinking, curious stare—tempted and confused at once.  You stared back at him, marvelling at the fact he seemed so incessantly marvelled as well.  You gripped his shoulder a little tighter, began to stand.   “Come on,” you repeated.  “Come with me.”

You weren’t in the habit of inviting strangers to your apartment.  Hell, you weren’t in the habit of _blind dates_ never mind inviting strange homeless men into your personal space.  And maybe you were more trusting than you should have been—or maybe you had watched one too many lifetime movies on Netflix—but something compelled you to help him.  You always wanted to be a do-gooder but your own anxieties and quietude often kept you distant.  Chance had thrown Castiel into your path and if you could help him, lost and bewildered as he seemed, then you would. 

“You don’t need to do this,” he said, holding your arm as you helped him to his feet.   He bumped his forehead against your umbrella.  You quickly whipped it back, momentarily exposing yourself to the rain.

“Sorry,” you said again.  Jesus Christ, you were going to maim him before you could help him.  “Are you all right?  I didn’t hit your eye, did I?”   He grabbed the umbrella and drew it forward, covering your head again.  You lifted it a bit higher so it covered his too.

“I’m all right,” he said, looking around the dingy alley for a moment.  He looked down though his next words were very clear, very heavy with sentiment.  “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” you said, heart melting.  If this was an act and he was going to murder you in two seconds then he was a damn good actor—definitely wasted on the streets.  But something told you that was not the case.   

The universe proved you were correct. 

Not two seconds later did something barrel into you from behind.  You yelped, startled, dropping your umbrella.  You went to scream on instinct, foreign hands grappling at your waist.  The wind slammed the umbrella into the wall and soon you were soaked through, dress clinging to your skin, hair plastered to your face.  A hand covered your mouth, stifling your scream, and something long and metallic was bared against your throat.  It didn’t seem like iron or steel, not like any knife you had ever seen, and it smelled more of midnight rain than metal.  You saw Castiel through the hair over your eyes.  His shock gave way to absolute wrath.   

“Put her down,” he said, storming forward.  For an unarmed man, he certainly was brazen.  

“Get back,” a female voice replied.  Her grip on you tightened and you squealed, the strange knife breaking some skin under your chin.   Castiel halted though his gaze remained steadfast, furiously determined. 

“Who are you?” he demanded.  “Naomi’s forces have been destroyed.  Who do you work for?”

_What in the—_

“New sheriff in town, Castiel,” the voice purred, drawing the blade down the centre of your chest, holding it against your stomach.  “Now you’re both going to come with me.”

“Leave her,” Castiel said.  “This isn’t her fight.”

“Oh, I don’t expect her to put up much of a fight either.”  She tore through the stomach of your dress, cutting into the skin beneath.  You screamed into her hand.  The pain was not horrible, would leave a thin scar at worst, but the fact it _happened_ was mortifying on its own.  You wriggled against the girl but despite her small frame, she held you with an inhuman strength.   Your eyes centred on Castiel, pleading for help.   You could not hope to make sense of the scene unfolding, thus you didn’t even try, but survival was paramount and Castiel seemed to be your only chance.   He stared at you, his hard expression softening to a sadness.  

“Let her go,” he said again, voice softer, meaning to bargain instead of threaten.  “I’ll go with you.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?”  The girl slammed you tight against her, flattened the knife on your stomach.  With the rain falling over you, short screams crashing into her fingers, it took a moment to realize you were crying.   Castiel, when he saw his complacency did nothing, straightened.   Before you could blink, he had a matching silver-coloured weapon in his hand.  Where he kept it, you didn’t even know.    “Oh, don’t bother,” the girl barked, the ferocity of her words spitting into your hair.  “There’s a reason for the girl.  I was warned of the great Castiel’s terrible and dangerous might.  I’m not going to lie, I had hoped to ease you into our little rendezvous through more pleasurable means… but if I can’t appeal to your senses as a man, then I’ll appeal to others.”

You shouted incoherently once more, the knife extending the scar across your stomach.  It was still shallow but it stung.  The rain caused the blood to run down your dress. 

“Your weaknesses are as famous as your strengths, Castiel,” the girl declared.  “If I can’t coerce you into submission, I’ll convince you.  You won’t let a human die for you.  Especially not one as innocent and pretty as this.”   Her taunting voice sang at your ear.  You closed your eyes tight.   You heard the clatter of one weapon hitting the ground and you knew it was Castiel surrendering. 

“I’ll go with you,” he said.  “But don’t hurt her.”

“Well, that will depend on you, won’t it?” the girl said. She started to drag you backwards and, realizing you would get nowhere struggling, you simply dropped down.   The sudden motion startled her, launching her forward with your weight.   You dangled off her arms and although she was strong, impossibly so, she was still small.   She couldn’t hold you upright and balance the knife threateningly, not at once.  She couldn’t reach.  But this moment was fleeting.  She would correct it in a second, holding you against her.

But a moment was all it took.

“You should have picked a bigger vessel,” Castiel said.  From that moment, everything was whirling motion, wind and rain. 

You were practically thrown from her arms, Castiel tackling the girl and sending them both careening into the wall.  The weapon fell to the ground and rolled into shadow.   You flailed, toppling over.   After a dizzying moment on the concrete, the world spinning around you, you lifted your head and pushed your sopping wet hair from your face.   Castiel was wrestling the girl, a red-head you recognized from the building next door—but _no_.  You didn’t know her personally but you had seen the girl around.   She was even quieter and kinder than you.   The word _vessel_ rang in your head and though you did not understand what was happening, you knew it was big.  You knew that girl was not who you remembered, at least not anymore, and you could see Castiel was losing their fight.   You sided with the person who saved you above the person who injured you, obviously.  Thus, scrambling to your feet, you ran to the weapon Castiel had earlier discarded.   He and the girl whipped each other around, the sound of thunder and the pelt of rain blocking the echo of your footsteps. The girl heard you at the last second, spinning around to grab you.  Once more, the split second she faltered cost her.   You drove the blade forward unthinkingly, acting purely on instinct, and it ripped right into her.

You expected blood, you expected gore, you expected to fall to the ground in a weeping, hysterical mess for having murdered another human being.

But she exploded in light.  You went flying backwards, screaming in fear, the horrible light and sound washing the alleyway before everything went still.   When you finally lifted your head, the girl was collapsed on the ground, Castiel leaning against the wall and breathing hard.   He was bleeding as well, a stream of blood running down his temple, blows delivered all over his face and neck, his shirt ripped, hoodie and jacket hanging half-off.  For a long moment, you stared at the girl.   _Not a girl_ , you told yourself.

You and Castiel looked at one another in unison. 

“I suppose you no longer want my company,” he said.   The comment was so unexpected.  For a moment you just stared at him and then you laughed.  It was maybe a bit deranged.  Laughing so you wouldn’t cry.  But you laughed at the absurdity of the moment and his remark.

Then you started to cry. 

Castiel approached, dropped onto his knees in front of you.   You blinked up at him, the rain still pouring around you.   He pushed your hair out of your face, picking loose strands from the corner of your mouth.   Your hands circled the front of his coat instinctively.

“You’re hurt,” you both spoke in unison.  He tipped his head and looked at you a bit sadly.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “This is all my fault.  Everywhere I go—I only hurt more people.” 

You could see his guilt, the sincere agony eating at him.   In that moment, you were mostly terrified he would leave you.  It would be with the best intentions, fearing he would hurt you more if he stayed, but if you were abandoned in this alleyway with questions and confusions, you would never recover.   You clung to him tightly, stared him in the eye.

“You’re coming inside,” you said, attempting to be strong.  You faltered, slouching.   He grabbed you under your arms and held you up.  “Please,” you said, voice breaking.   He nodded slowly. 

“Show me the way.”

* * *

 

Your apartment was basically one big room plus a bathroom.   Walking in through the door, you immediately came upon a sitting area.  A small tv was mounted on the wall, a couch and chair facing it.   There was a small coffee table littered with the remnants of your earlier activity—empty chip bags and soda cans.   Upon entering, the bathroom door was on the far right.   Directly ahead, behind the sitting area, was a kitchen space—an island with a few stools, a counter opposite with the necessary appliances.   To the left was a series of large windows, one over your desk, one over your bed.   You had secured them before leaving, the curtains drawn closed.   In your hurry, you had left the lamplights on.  The room was washed with a warm yellow glow and felt immediately comfortable, welcome after the bitter blue and cold outside. 

“Come on,” you said, leading Castiel inside.  You passed the television with a dry remark in the back of your head—somehow you found yourself playing an integral role in a Netflix worthy exclusive.  With a shuddering breath, you stepped further into the room.  Castiel closed the door, fiddled confusedly with the locks for a moment.  When you realized his struggle, you went back and did it yourself.   “You don’t have much experience with these sorts of things, do you?” you asked.   He understood you weren’t talking about locks.   He watched you latch them down.   Slowly, he shook his head.

“No,” he said.  “I’m afraid not.” 

You turned to him.   You had both created a huge puddle in front of the door.   At least neither of you bled anymore, though the vestige of your wounds yet lingered in long red streaks.  You stared at him, Castiel attending your directions in this strange moment.  Eventually you sighed and stepped away from him.  You turned away as best you could and reached back, trying to reach the zipper of your dress. 

“Take off your outer layers here,” you said.  “This is already going to be awful to clean up.  I don’t want it all over the apartment.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.  He did what you asked, turning his back to afford you privacy.  You looked over at him, your expression still crossing confusion and sadness.  Though you realized the sadness was less for yourself.  Your wounds were minimal and, beyond this confrontation, you doubted you had a role to play in his story.   But his seemed ever unwinding in the most desolate of ways.   You hadn’t meant for your tone to be sharp.  You didn’t think it was but he carried so much weight in his mind, it seemed to impact him.   You breathed out unevenly. 

That strange metal weapon was dropped to the floor.  It was a noticeable clang.  Perhaps he wished to indicate he was trustworthy.  Castiel removed his sopping coat, carefully placed it over top.   He pulled off his hoodie afterwards, likewise laid it down.   You eventually turned your gaze away from him.   He began unbuttoning his shirt.  You still couldn’t reach your zipper.   Your friend had laced you up earlier that day, the same one who arranged your blind date.   You couldn’t get the dress undone by yourself.   Your smartass friend was probably anticipated a hook-up or something, thus someone else would be removing your dress at this point.  How far the mighty fall. 

“God, I’m sorry to do this,” you said, more frustrated than nervous.  Castiel slowly turned, his shirt all the way unbuttoned.   You tried not to look, swallowed hard and cast your gaze aside.  “I can’t reach the zipper,” you said.  “Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” he said, facing you squarely.   You gathered your wet hair over your shoulder and turned around.   He settled one hand on your shoulder-blade, his hands surprisingly warm considering the cold you both endured.   You shivered at the touch and he paused, wondering if he hurt you.  When nothing more transpired, he took the zipper in his other hand and drew it low.  You were suddenly very aware of breathing, both you and him, the gentle exchange in the quiet room.   His warm breath hit the back of your neck, exposed because your hair was drawn forward.  Your tremors were easily blamed on the lingering chill. 

“Thank you,” you said, holding your dress to your chest.   He turned away without saying anything, flipped his shirt down his arms when you suddenly noticed something.   “Oh my god—where did that one come from?”   His arm was bandaged, rather poorly at that, the rag entirely soaked with blood.  Now that you were looking, you realized the sleeve of his shirt was also dyed red.    Castiel stood aside, offering you naught more than his profile.  He turned the shirt over in his hands, glance ever morose.  You understood without his explanation.   Tonight was not the first night someone came after him. 

He could have been the bad guy.   Somehow you knew he wasn’t.   Besides, since when did bad guys care about what happened to the likes of people like you?  You didn’t consider yourself all that important.   You had no idea who he was but you could see he was important. 

“I’ll help you fix that too,” you promised.   He nodded, turned his gaze to the shirt.

“Thank you,” he said.  “You are… much kinder than you need to be.” 

“You saved my life,” you sufficed to say.  His forehead crinkled, momentary confusion.  He looked at you again.

“No,” he said. “I’m pretty sure you saved mine.” 

You only blinked, eyelids fluttering quickly.   God, he had the bluest eyes.

“I’m just—could you—turn around—” you said, motioning with one hand.  He nodded, realizing what you wanted.  He once more turned his back to you.  You rolled your dress down your body, left it in a heap on the floor before scurrying across the room.  You snatched a blanket off the couch and wrapped it around yourself.   “I have some clothes that might fit you,” you said, rushing to your bedroom space.  There was a dresser against the far wall.   It was an inconvenient place; you had to shove the bed aside in order to open the lower drawers.  But you rarely went in there—it was all old clothing and things left from past relationships that you never got around to throwing away.   There were some sweatpants and t-shirts in there.   You pulled out a couple that looked like they would fit him.  You tossed them onto the bed, kicked the drawer closed and then tugged the bed back to its original place.  You picked up the clothes and meant to approach him, stopping when you saw him standing there in nothing but white boxers.  They were thankfully dry, mostly protected by his jeans. Of course,  this still left very little to the imagination.

It was a hideously inappropriate time to admire him but he was seriously beautiful, tall and lean but cut with handsome definition, small curves in his biceps and the muscles down his torso.  He was proportioned wonderfully, everything meticulously crafted from his head to his toes.   When you realized you sounded like a ridiculous schoolgirl, you shook your head.    He had not noticed your staring, thankfully.  He was fidgeting with the bloody rag around his bicep wound. 

“Don’t touch that,” you said as you approached.   He looked at you, cast a fleeting glance down your body.  You supposed the blanket, reaching mid-thigh and barely covering your whole chest, didn’t conceal much more than his boxers.   You cleared your throat and he met your eye.  Aware you were probably blushing, you looked away from him and shoved the clothes forward.  “Here,” you said.  “Go change in the bathroom.   Knock before you come out.  I’ll be here.”  He nodded, took the clothes and retreated.   Once the bathroom door closed you let out of a shaky breath, shaking your head and returning to your dresser.

A while later there was a knock at the bathroom door.  You were sitting on the couch, drying your hair with a kitchen towel.   You were dressed in sweatpants and a tank-top, having replaced your underwear to dryer articles as well.   The pile of wet clothes were relocated to the hamper.   The laundry room was locked at this hour so you would have to wait until morning to wash and dry his clothes.  Your own dress was for the trash, honestly.   You left the strange weapon beside the front door.  You didn’t want to touch it. 

“You can come in,” you replied to his knocking.  The door opened and he stepped out.   He had dried himself off a bit, his hair ruffled and skin pinkened where it was once pale. He washed away all the blood, leaving just a small scar on his temple. The clothes fit him well, plain black sweats and a white t-shirt.   He ambled over to you, hovered awkwardly nearby.  “Sit down,” you said, gesturing to the space beside you.   He sat down with a bit of a grunt, grimacing in pain.   You had already dealt with your own injuries.  The nick under your chin was nothing, would scab over in a day.   The cut on your stomach looked worse than it felt, a thin line running directly across your otherwise unmarred skin.   It would leave a decent scar once healed.  For now you cleaned it and plastered  it with a bandage.   The first-aid kit sat on the coffee table, your garbage disposed of.   “I’m going to fix your arm,” you said to him.  You pulled your legs onto the couch, sat cross-legged facing him.   He squared his body ahead, dropped his gaze a bit.   “While I do that, I think you owe me an explanation for what just happened out there.” 

He had dealt with the aftermath of the ordeal.  You weren’t sure where he put the body or what would happen next.  He assured you no responsibility would ever fall upon you.   You trusted him.   Something about him inspired trust.  Maybe it was simply that you had little alternative.

“I highly doubt you’ll believe me,” he said, his voice donning a little more character now that he was not so battered.  You laughed yourself, though it was humourless.

“I just watched a girl explode with light,” you said.  “I think I’ll believe anything.”

“You’d be surprised,” he replied, looking at you.   You unwrapped his bandage, frowned at the messy wound.  It was starting to fester because of improper attention.  The injury itself didn’t look that bad, just its treatment.   You put the bloody rag on the table and reached for a clean, wet cloth.  

“Try me,” you said.  You wiped at the wound, cleaning away the dried blood as best you could. 

“All right,” he said.  “Do you—”  He hissed at the ointment you smeared across the wound.

“Sorry,” you said.  “I know it stings.”

There was a pause before he spoke.  He seemed to mull your words and then accept it. 

“I didn’t know,” he said.  “It’s all new to me.  The cold, the sting.  Sensations of physical pain.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, I should think.”  You realized your poor phrasing and shook your head.  “Not the fact you’re suddenly getting assaulted.  Just the fact it’s never happened before this.”

 “No.  That’s not what I meant,” he said, dropping his gaze to the floor.  “Do you know about angels?”

The story which followed was fragmented but clear enough in its haphazard execution.  He spoke nervously at first, each word pouring into the next, an almost drunken slur giving way to clarity—even relief.   The more he spoke, the lighter he seemed.   His mind had been burdened with more thoughts than he could teem.   Perhaps as a divine entity, he could hope to deliberate so many curiosities.  As a man who bled and grimaced at small scrapes, he could never dream of it.   You long ago finished mending his wound, the bandage tied beneath the sleeve of his shirt.   You simply sat there and listened with rapt attention.   It was an extravagant story, to be certain.   Someone named Metatron, someone named Naomi, someone named Dean.  Name after name fell from his lips, each uttered with a certain taste.   Honestly, it was the way he spoke those names which prompted your belief.   Anyone could relate a story, could memorize odd details and deliver them.  They could do it with a dramatic flair, draw it close to the brink of reality so it might fool the unsuspecting few.  But no one could render the disgust or love which graced the tongue upon uttering a certain name, that small collection of syllables which contained more stories than could ever be told.  

And when he finished or at least stopped, he looked at you sort of sheepishly. 

“I’m strange, aren’t I?” he asked.  “Do you even believe me?”

“Do I believe that you’re strange?” you asked, feeling a little more at ease.   You wondered if you had gone off the deep end.  Not only did you believe his story but you were _eased_ by it.  It should have sent you running in the other direction, screaming at the top of your lungs, but you felt like a weight had been lifted, like the muddled world made sense again.  You only smiled at him, traces of sadness fading away.   “Yes, I believe you’re strange,” you teased.  He seemed to realize it was a jest and smiled back.   You nodded your head.  “But, yes, I believe your story as well.   I mean…”  You sighed, shrugging your shoulders in a soulful resignation.  “Seeing is believe, I suppose.”   You had, after all, witnessed something otherwise inexplicable in that alleyway. 

“I suppose that does help,” Castiel said, nodding thoughtfully.  He appeared chagrined in the next moment.  “I am sorry I dragged you into this.  It was not my intention.” 

“I know,” you said.  “Sometimes we can’t help these things.”

“I should,” he said forcefully, staring ahead.  “I should have helped.  I should have done a lot of things I didn’t.  I should be doing a lot of things I’m not.  I  just… I don’t know where to start or…”  His shoulders caved in frustration, his breath expelled in a dragging way.  His eyes strained a bit.   “Humanity is very different at this vantage.  I feel more keenly then I ever imagined.   It was always there, all these thoughts and feelings, the hopelessness and wonder, but it was weaker.  Now it’s all right there, like it’s… simmering under my skin.  I _feel_ everything.  And everything feels terrible.”  

You blinked your gaze down into your lap, brow furrowing.   His words could have been any human’s words.  Hell, they had been your own words once or twice.   Human life could seem like an overwhelming burden.  It took years of weaving through ordeal after ordeal, struggles and heartbreaks alike before you even began to find footing.  Even then, the ground was never solid.   But to suddenly find yourself hurtling towards the earth at lightning speed… and to be expected to pick yourself up and keeping walking…

A thought occurred to you.  You jumped to your feet, held out your hand to him.   He looked at it confusedly.

“Come with me,” you said.  “I think the rain has stopped.  I want to show you something.”

* * *

 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel said.  “That sign forbids entry.”

“What?”  You looked at the _No Visitors on the Rooftop_ sign.  It was plastered to the door whose lock you jimmied.   You shook your head, glancing at Castiel over your shoulder.  He stood a few steps down, both of you in the narrow stairwell which led to the roof of the apartment complex.   “Just ignore that,” you said.  “That was Davey Axel on floor six.  He made everyone think the rooftop was off limits so he and his stoner buddies could use the space whenever they wanted.  I promised not to report him in exchange for using the roof whenever I wanted as well.  When it isn’t rank with weed, it’s a pretty sweet dig.”  The door finally unlocked and you pushed through, sucking in the clean air.  There was nothing like the night air after rainfall. 

Castiel followed you up, stepping out of the way as you placed a chair in front of the door.  You weren’t keen on getting trapped up here all night.  Castiel wandered away, a curious glance thrown over the rooftop scene.  There were lawn chairs scattered every which way, miscellaneous cushions thrown about.  They were all drenched from the storm.  There were large dirt pots in various locales, some filled with flowers, some not so much.   Most of all, it had a spectacular view of the surrounding city scape.   Standing here at midnight, the traffic softer but city lights blaring bright, it enveloped its citizens with an inexplicable serenity, a container of a moment in which the world beyond that wrap of light and sound did not exist.   But while your gaze trailed over the city, Castiel wove between the benches and flowers, regarding them curiously. 

“This is a strange place,” he said, finally looking at you.  You laughed lightly, a soft breeze wafting through the rooftop.  The flowers fluttered and the chill kissed your skin.   It was a more welcome sensation this time.   

Castiel joined you at the edge of the rooftop and finally looked at the city lights.   His eyes narrowed momentarily and then he looked at you.

“I’ve seen cities,” he said.  It wasn’t meant to be rude and you could tell, though you had been irrevocably correct in your earliest assumption of his character: socially speaking, he wasn’t the most graceful.      “I’ve seen all cities,” he said.  “There was a time I could have taken you to Rome if you asked me.   Ancient Rome.”

“Castiel,” you said, laughing as you saw his mind wander.  He reeled himself back in, looked at you.  “I know this city isn’t much,” you said, not even sure why you were smiling so much.  So maybe you had finally snapped.   You kept smiling anyway.   “That’s not what I wanted to show you.   There’s nothing great about this city.  You’ve seen better, I know.   But it’s nice, isn’t it?  It’s just nice.  There’s a breeze and there are flowers and the city is beautiful and it’s nice.  And it’s not all bad.  You can feel good things as a human too.  My opinion doesn’t matter but I think you can be a good human.   I think you’re the best human I’ve ever met, in fact.” 

“I highly doubt that,” he said, throwing you a sideways glance.

“I’m not lying,” you returned, giggling a bit.  He frowned suddenly.

“Why did you say your opinion doesn’t matter?”   Castiel asked.  “Of course it’s important.” 

You shrugged, looking at the city again.  

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, breathing in the crisp air. 

“Do you have a long, sad story too?” he asked, somehow managing to deride himself and genuinely inquire at once.   You glanced at him, your arms crossed, expression a bit sarcastic. 

“No, Castiel.  No great stories from me, I’m afraid.” 

A moment of silence passed between you.   The traffic lights changed colour.   Castiel spoke again. 

“I would like to hear them,” he said.  You looked at him.   He returned your stare.   “Your stories,” he clarified.   “If you want.” 

You didn’t know what to say at first.   You supposed it was a fair deal.   He had given you everything you needed to know but you didn’t really like sharing your thoughts.   It was basically sharing yourself.   You didn’t like people arranging your dates, you didn’t invite strangers into your apartment, and you didn’t share your life history with fallen angels just because they had beautiful blue eyes. 

But you were also a foolhardy spirit and you succumbed in every capacity thus far.

So you talked.   You wiled at least an hour on the rooftop gabbing about nonsense.   You sat on the rim of the roof and idly flicked pebbles over the edge.   You asked Castiel about the world from his vantage and he answered.   He did the same and you would try. 

And after it all, you were sitting on the ground and giggling at something.  The conversation had returned to feeling good things amidst the bad.

“And chocolate sundaes,” you said.  “With brownie bits in them.   Have you ever had that?” 

“Obviously not,” he said with a grin.  You sat side by side, leaning against the roof ledge, shoulders touching.   

“Okay.  We have to make sure you do that at some point.   How about sky diving?  It doesn’t count if you did it with wings!”

“No,” he said.  “Have you?”

“No.  Just thought I’d ask.”

“Why would you think I’ve had time to sky-dive in between homelessness and an impending chase conducted by the forces of heaven?” 

“I dunno,” you laughed, shrugging dramatically.  “Maybe you had to sky-dive to get away from an angel.   Could be anything, Castiel.”  You slapped a hand on his knee.  “I’m not here to judge.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t mock me.”  You lifted your hand off his knee and jokingly swatted his face.   His features crinkled adorably and you giggled again.  “All right, all right.  So no chocolate sundaes or sky-diving.  And you’ve really never pet a guinea pig?”

“I’ve seen all animals since their conception,” he said.   You rolled your eyes in good-humour and muttered _show-off_.   He ignored the comment, his shoulder bumping yours.  “But no.  My humans hands have never pet a guinea pig.”

“Okay, well, they’re adorable.   So you’re going to have to do that at some point.   Okay, let me think of things you have done that are good.   You said you got a tattoo?”

“That was not a pleasant sensation.”

“No but it’s kinda bad-ass anyway.” 

“Do you have a tattoo?” he asked.

“Oh-ho.”  You could feel the blush spread across your cheeks and you hoped he wasn’t looking.  You stared straight ahead.  “Not where you can see, buddy.   So don’t hold your breath.”   You cleared your throat, shook your head.  “All right.  So tattoos.   That’s one.  You also had fancy soup at that café today.  And like six espressos.”

“Yes.  They kept me very alert.”

You laughed. 

“I’ll bet,” you said.  “You, well, you kicked that lady’s butt—whatever she was.  With my help, granted, but still.  How many butts have you kicked?  As a human.”

“Not literally?” he confirmed, looking at you.

“No,” you replied.  “Your foot did not need to contact their ass.”

“Then a few.”

“Excellent, excellent,” you said.  “But riddle me this, blue-eyes.   You can kick a butt but how about the opposite?  Honest truth, how many people have you kissed since turning human?”    You thought nothing of the question.   You knew he had stumbled around a bit, struggling place to place, but the fact of the matter stood quite apparent: Castiel was a beautiful man and had surely drawn several eyes on his travels.   But there was no answer to your question and when you looked at him, you saw a small blush had faintly coloured his cheeks.   You looked away again, realizing there was a faint skip to your heartbeat.   “All right,” you said.  “Won’t pry.   How about just people you’ve had in general?  From, like, angel to now.   I mean, shit, you must have been rolling in—”   When you looked at him again, he was staring right at you.   “Uh, that many, huh?”

“None.”

“N—nuns?  Nuns?”

“Not nuns,” he said dryly.  “I have never had the time for carnal indulgences.” 

“Carnal indulgences,” you repeated, testing the sound on your tongue.   Why you were blushing more than him was ridiculous.  One of you just admitted to being a virgin and it sure as hell wasn’t you.   You drew your legs up to your chest, glanced at him out the corner of your eye.   “Never kissed anyone?”  You brought it back to that, figured you could keep the rating low.   Your lips were suddenly dry, aching to be drawn against your tongue.   You mentally scolded yourself.   Now was not the time.  

Castiel just shook his head, looked at you a bit shyly. 

“Dean made an attempt to introduce me to the… underside of sexual relations.   I believe I referred to it as a den of iniquity.”  He looked at you squarely then, nodded with fervour.  “It was a whore house,” he said plainly. 

“Ah,” you replied, your blush even surer.   “Well, I’m glad you didn’t go for that.   I mean, sex is… sex is just… you know… but I think an angel’s first time should probably be… I don’t know.  What am I—I shouldn’t be talking about your sex life—I’m so sorry—are you sure you’ve never kissed anyone?  Did no one even try?  I mean—look at you!”   You dropped your forehead to your palm, shook your head.  “I need to stop talking.”  

Castiel smiled sort of fondly.

Before much else could be done, a sudden gust of wind swept across the rooftop.   It jostled the chair holding the door ajar. 

“Oh no!” you cried, launching to your feet.  Castiel hurried after you, both of you racing to catch the door before it slammed closed.   You got there just in time, barrelling through and almost tumbling down the stairs.  Castiel caught you, drew you back from the top step.   The action was very quick, all adrenaline and instinct.   He whipped you back around and you crashed into his chest.   It left you situated achingly close to his face.    Thankfully, there was yet another distraction.   His stomach rumbled and it was his turn to look embarrassed.  

“I’m sorry,” he said.   You smiled again.

“Don’t be,” you replied.  “I was silly for not offering you food.  Come on.  Let’s go back downstairs.” 

And so you returned to the room.   You made him a couple of sandwiches and introduced him to the world of Netflix.  At least another hour passed flipping movies absently, a couple different chip bags scattered across the table, a few sodas, two dirty plates, and a pile of chocolate bar wrappers.    You wished you could say Castiel did most of the eating but, honestly, you had partaken quite happily. 

The television was off now.   You sat on opposite ends of the couch and attempted to toss chocolate-covered peanuts into the other person’s mouth.  The game ended when he accidentally threw one down your shirt.  Erupting with giggles, you turned away from him.

“Agh, this is annoying,” you said, shaking your bra and tank top.  “Don’t look!  This is embarrassing!”

He just laughed from somewhere behind you.  The chocolate peanut fell to the floor and rolled under the couch.   You sat upright again, your flop backwards landing you a bit closer to him.  Castiel mimicked you.   You sat side-by-side in the middle of the couch, staring at a blank television. 

It was Castiel who broke the silence.

“How many people have _you_ kissed?” he asked, glancing at you.   Your heart resumed its earlier race.  You blinked quickly, returned his glance.

“Um, a few.” 

“Is it a lot?” he asked, like he didn’t believe your modest reply.  You looked at him a bit strangely.

“A few,” you insisted.  “Why?”

“It seems like it would be a lot,” he answered.  That comment could be interpreted a hundred ways but it grew apparent with his next assertion.  “You’re very beautiful.”

 _Heaven help me,_ you thought.  You recalled the irony of such an appeal.  You were left to battle your own conflictions.   Castiel sat forward, feet planted firmly on the ground, his hands in his lap.  Your legs were tucked beneath you and your body squared to him. You could easily pluck one arm and drape it over your back, and if you leaned forward you could nestle against his side just so.   He looked at you, expression a bit bashful, like he knew what you were thinking.   His gaze then darted about the room.  You finally licked your lips, turned your gaze down.  You drew your bottom lip between your teeth, gnawing anxiously in contemplation.  When you looked up at him, you saw him staring.   Had you moved a little closer in this quiet exchange?   His body was facing yours a little surer. 

“Well,” you croaked.  You cleared your throat quickly, continued as nonchalantly as possible.  “You know, since you’re here and I’m here, and I’ve kissed a few people and I know what I’m doing,  I could give you some pointers.  Demonstrations.   The general foundations.   Then you can use it on whoever you like later.”   He stared at you intently now, gaze darkening with the faint dilation of his pupils.  You swallowed another hard lump in your throat   “If you’re interested, that is.” 

He said nothing.  He just nodded.   His eyelashes fluttered when you reached for his face, fingers tracing his jaw and moving along his temple, up into his hair.   You shifted closer.   He turned to face you fully.   You dragged your hand back down his face. 

“I take it you know the basic mechanics,” you said.  “Having observed humanity for so long.”

“And having observed Dean Winchester,” he said.  It might have been a joke but he sounded quite serious.  “I’ve never been in short of supply of overzealous demonstrations—often unwitting on behalf of every party.”

You snorted in recollection of some of his stories.   The den of iniquity was a good one too.  

You dropped your hand to his shoulder, thumbed the junction between neck and collar. 

“So what do you know?” you asked.  “So I know where to start.” 

He answered you by lifting his hand, fingers circling your chin before he gently grasped it.  His thumb swiped across your bottom lip, his tongue darting out to wet his own.  Your breath had gone a bit ragged. 

“Lips,” you rasped.  “That is a good beginning.  But you’re missing some things.”

He looked at you curiously, gaze lifting from your lips to your eyes.   You smiled, free hand seizing his wrist and lowering it from your face.   Your other hand cupped his cheek, drawing him towards you.   His eyes remained open until the last second—a sudden blink when your noses bumped.   You giggled, keeping your faces close.

“See?”  you said.  “Noses are important too.” 

He grabbed your face with both hands, tilted it as he did his own.   You both dropped your hands as your mouths came together, lips pressing gently.   It lasted only a moment.   The kiss broke, a stuttering breath bursting past his lips.   You tutted, taking both his hands in yours.   His hands were rough, weathered.   He was otherwise quite soft—his lips and his skin almost brand new.   Only the stubble along his cheeks and chin prevented the ultimate test.   But you enjoyed the sensation, skimming your cheek against his as you pulled back.

“Breath,” you said.  “It’s the most important part of a kiss.”

“Not the most important,” he said, though he sounded unsure.  You nodded, pecking his lips again before retreating.  He held your hands tight and you smiled, squeezing back.   You adjusted yourself without their aid, kneeling for a moment then sitting back on your heels.   He sat a bit straighter, angling himself towards you.  He folded one leg beneath himself, inhaling deeply. 

“Exactly,” you said, voice scraping mildly seductive tones.  It acted of its own volition, to be honest.  It sought to match his heavy-lidded gaze and that usually gruff voice.   “Breath is everything the kiss is made of.   It determines whether the whole experience is the best or worst you ever had.  We’ve been eating chocolate so I think we’re both good…”   You leaned forward again and he caught your mouth with his, kiss lingering a bit.   It still broke quickly but this time he stayed still, lips parted.  A small breath passed between you before his lips were on yours again.   He was able to draw longer kisses now, his fingers squeezing yours tight in his hands.   You hummed contently into the kiss, earning a low grunt from the bottom of his throat.   When you did finally separate, you found yourself breathless. 

“What else,” he asked, nose teasing at your cheek.   You smiled at him, turning your face and kissing the tip of his nose. 

“Teeth,” you said.  “Bad if you knock them accidentally.  But sometimes good when…” you trailed off, demonstrating instead.  You kissed him gently then slipped your upper lip between his.  You gently bit down against his bottom lip, drawing the flesh forward.   He released your fingers, hands seeking purchase on your arms as he pulled you towards him.   The action was sudden, kiss breaking, foreheads bumping.  You laughed, stumbling forward.   You grabbed the back of the couch and held steady, leaning over him.   “This works too,” you said, free hand going to his knee.  “Lay back.” 

He did exactly as you said, shifting until he lay flat on his back.  You lowered yourself over him, straddling one thigh.   He kept one hand on your shoulder, the other extended above his head.   Yours was still fastened on the back of the couch, the other at his side, palm flat on the couch.   He blinked up at you, eyes heady and desirous.  

“All right,” you said.  “There’s also tongues.  They can be sort of uncomfortable… unless you really like the person you’re kissing.  Then they’re pretty sexy.”  

You could see how quickly he breathed, the rise and fall of his chest.   You pressed a little more weight against his thigh and brought both hands to his face, cupping his cheeks as you leaned down.   You led the slow kiss, lips gently probing until you slid the tip of your tongue forward.  You dabbed at his lips.  They parted with an exhale, warm against your mouth.   He opened his mouth the same way as you, his eyes closing as your kisses turned ravishing.  You swiped your tongue across his teeth, further yet against the roof of his mouth.   His knee jerked beneath you, pressing his thigh between your legs.  You mewled into the kiss, a soft moan, trailing one hand down his side.   You gripped his hip, held tight as things continued with long, hot kisses.   He licked his tongue into your mouth, bending his knee once more.   His thigh again rubbed between yours, eliciting another low sound.   You realized he had done it on purpose.   He groaned softly at the noise you made.  

You broke the kiss, lifted your face.  Your mouths were wet and a strand of saliva broke between you, but it only heightened the thunderous race of your blood stream.  You had only _kissed_ him and he looked positively _decadent._ There had to be some rule against corrupting angels, even fallen ones, but you would break it a thousand times.  Happily.

He opened his eyes, stared at you with such unabashed desire.   You returned the stare, quite certain no one had ever displayed such open want for anything in their life.   You were certain _you_ had not wanted anything more in your life.   Still, you sought to temper yourself, ensuring you kept a steady pace for him—even as he seemed to surge forth. 

And then he said your name, voice low, tone desperate.   Heat was rapidly pooling below your waist and that set you off completely.   Your breath ran totally ragged, your blood pumping hot in your veins.   You sat back, grabbing his t-shirt and pulling him upright.   His hands immediately ran into your hair, gripping you tight and pulling your face towards his.  You held onto his sides, eyes closing and a soft sound falling as he kissed you thoroughly.   It was you who broke the kiss, much to his upset.   God, he looked so beautiful, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, hair mussed. 

You climbed off the couch, breathing as hard as him.   He stared up at you bemusedly, expression shifting when you held out your hand.   You didn’t have to say anything.   He minutely turned his head towards the bed.   You nodded gently, hand still outstretched.   He stared at your fingers for a moment and then looked up at you.   He pressed his palm to yours, fingers circling tight as you led him off the couch.   You walked quietly over to the bed, hand in his, heart racing.   You couldn’t remember the last time it felt like this. 

 He turned you around to face him, kissing you again at the bedside.   You lifted yourself onto the mattress, fingers curling under the hem of his shirt.   The bed was quite high and you pulled him towards you, legs wrapping around his waist from where he stood.   He leaned forward, fists pressing into the bedclothes.   For a moment only breath cast between you—breath and lingering stares.   Your hands trailed up his chest and then dropped to yourself.   You grabbed the bottom of your tank top and lifted it off with one fluid motion.   He stood back, staring at you as you tossed it aside.  

“The best part about kissing…” you said, voice rough.  Clearing your throat did not help.   “Is that you can kiss anywhere.”

He took that as invitation enough.   You followed his direction and dragged yourself horizontally across the bed.   He climbed over you, lips dropping to your collarbone and kissing messily.   Your fingers ran into his hair, drawing him close.   His hips settled between your thighs, his mouth warm at the skin of your throat.   He placed small kisses here and there, tracing them lower and lower to the middle of your chest.   He closed his teeth around the front of your bra, opening his eyes to stare up at you. 

“Fuck,” you swore, voice pitched high.  He tugged at the material with his teeth, his gaze steadfast on yours.   He learned way too fast.   You wondered if you could die of sexual frustration—heat exhaustion maybe.  

You lifted yourself up, reached back to undo the clasp of your bra.  His hands settled beneath your lower back.  He held you up as you undid the bra.   When you dropped back down, his hands went to your shoulders and lowered the straps.   He pulled the garment free and hurled it somewhere behind him, looking at you for confirmation of his actions.   You nodded, almost wondering what he would do without direction.   It was not much, his fingers tracing over a breast with a reverent sort of wonder, gaze more curious than hot.

“Soft,” he murmured, dragging his thumb down a nipple.  You made a small noise, shifting your hips beneath his.  He blinked his gaze upwards, meeting your eye.  “That’s good?” he asked.   You wanted to answer, you really did, but your voice was screwed to hell.   You rolled over instead.   He allowed you to move him; you knew it would not work otherwise.   You were still laying incorrectly across the bed, feet hanging off the end, but it didn’t matter.  He settled in the middle of the mattress, you straddling his hips as you grabbed his t-shirt and lifted.    He helped you pull it off.   It dropped off the other side of the bed, landing somewhere on the floor.  He gently ran his fingers over the bandage on your stomach.   You could see his thoughts before he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said, breathing out.   You took his hand and lifted it, placing it over your breast instead.   His breath caught and he lifted his gaze.   You smiled at him.

“I’m not,” you said.   He smiled back. 

He gently thumbed over your nipple, watching as the bud hardened beneath his action.   You made a content sound before leaning down.   His hands went to your hips as your mouth found his throat.   You kissed gently for a moment, slowly rocking your hips against his.   He groaned when you attached your mouth to his pulse point, sucking a hard kiss and nipping at the flesh.  His hips bucked against yours and he seemed to realize it was a good sensation, hips rolling rhythmically beneath yours.   You could feel his hard-on through the sweatpants, pressing up indubitably now, and you emitted a high droning sound as he thrust against your heat.    You slid backwards a bit, his erection against your stomach as you dropped your face to his chest.   You kissed across his skin, glancing upwards to his face.   He stared skyward, blinking rapidly, breathing hard.   You smiled against his skin, circled your tongue around a nipple and flicked it.   One of his hands went into your hair, tugging a bit.  You looked up at him again.   He stared at you.

The next thing you knew, you were on your back again.   Once more did you cradle his hips between your thighs, the demand of his presence much surer this time.   You were never a noisy lover but all manner of decadent sounds tumbled from your lips as he copied your earlier actions, dragging his mouth over a breast and tonguing at a nipple. 

“Castiel,” you rasped, arching your back against his mouth.   He kissed you everywhere he could, across your breasts, the crevice between, warm mouth closing over the other nipple and pulling back in a dragging kiss.   You scratched his shoulders, careful to avoid the wound on his bicep.   “Oh, baby,” you murmured, his hips pressing into yours again.   He kept his mouth against your skin, face a little lower, reaching your stomach.

“Baby,” he repeated, like the word confused him.

“It’s just a pet name,” you said, groaning because your voice was scraping seriously dark tones.   It seemed unavoidable.   But he glanced at you with rabid want, thumbing circles on your sides. 

“Strange,” he said, “to be a baby and a pet.”   You giggled.  He smiled at the sound. 

“Sit up.”   He did as you said, shifting to the side.   You slid off the bed, hands roaming the waistband of your sweats.

“Ever seen a naked woman?” you asked.   He nodded, his eyes admittedly fastened below your neck. 

“Yes,” he managed to reply, voice low.

“Ever seen one like this?” you asked again.   He shook his head, swallowed hard.

“No,” he said, then looked at you.   His gaze dropped again as you pushed at the fabric, lowering pants and underwear simultaneously.   They pooled on the floor.   You stepped out, kicking them aside.   It took you a moment to gather enough courage to meet his eye but you managed, your hands idly skimming your sides.   He stared at you intensely, face flushed, something almost alarmed in his eyes.    You stepped a bit closer, gently took his face in yours.

“Are you all right?” you asked.  “We can stop—”

He met your gaze quite severely.   It seemed stopping was not his desire.   He took your hands in his, removed them from his face.   He gently nudged you backwards.   Sliding to the edge of the bed, he kept you a small distance so he could better look.  Your heart hammered against your chest, every nerve on edge, stomach coiling as his gaze wandered every inch of you.   His fingers gently clasped your wrists, keeping your arms slightly spread.   He nudged you a bit and you complied, turning.  He ran one hand down your side, over your hip, turning you until you had done a full revolution before him.  When you faced forward again, he drew you near. 

“So beautiful,” he said.  You practically melted, leaning forward and kissing him warmly.   He grabbed your hips quite fiercely, surprising you with a sudden bout of strength.   He lifted you off the floor, right onto his lap so you straddled his thighs.   The kiss broke in that moment but resumed quickly, your arms looping around his neck as his slid down your thighs.   Your kiss fell apart yet again when you felt his fingers skim your inner thigh.   “I found the tattoo,” he said, speaking against your lips.   You grinned.

“Good job.  Wanna see it better?” 

He flipped you around in a second.   You bounced on the mattress, arms stretching and fingers grasping the bed sheets.   He kneeled between your legs, further spreading your thighs as his gaze roved over the ink patterned on  the inside of your right thigh.   It was a small tattoo and it had hurt like hell—the result of a drunken escapade on your twenty-first birthday—but you never really regretted it.   Given the absolute rapture it instilled now, you were downright grateful.  

He skimmed his hand over the design.  Without further prompting, he lowered himself and pressed a kiss right there, touching his tongue against your inner thigh.  Your legs drew close in startled instinct, resulting in one leg thrown over his shoulder.   He glanced at it.  When you went to remove it, apology on your tongue, he slid his hand under your thigh and held it there.    He looked from your tattoo to the aching wetness which awaited attention since this whole thing began.   Your breath caught, eyes darkening as you lifted your head and looked down at him.

“Castiel…”

He wasn’t going to—was he?

He was.

Your head dropped back as he kissed you right where you needed.   It was so unbelievably Castiel, a chaste kiss against your most intimate area, the greatest of contradictions.   Fitting for an entity both angel and human yet neither.   Your thighs tensed, your fingers digging into the sheets as he repeated the motion once, twice, thrice. 

“Is this customary?” he asked, looking up at you.   You glanced at him again.   His breath was hitting you hard, dampening you further, every nerve throbbing with need for him.   He stroked his fingers over your hip and thigh, licking his lips—obviously wishing to continue but unsure if he should.   You just nodded vehemently.   You probably looked a bit mad but it satisfied him.   He returned his mouth to its previous task, this time parting his lips as you earlier taught him.   He flicked his tongue against your clit, seemed to note your strangled cry.   Your thighs tensed further and he held them tight, his mouth pressing harder at the apex of your thighs.  You tipped your head back, mouth open in a silent cry as he swiped, licked, sucked, and kissed according to his instincts and your reactions.   You thrust your hips a couple times, eyes opening and closing.   You felt like a fever had broken out across your body. 

“Does this enable climax?” he suddenly asked, voice raspy.  He pressed his thumb against your clit.  “It’s to my understanding women are stimulated to orgasm by pressure here.” 

“What the fuck,” was all you managed to say.   How he was so coherent while you were a mess, you could not hope to understand.   “Yeah, Castiel,” you said, groaning as he began to rub circles there.   “That’s… yeah…” 

He returned his mouth there, fingers dipping elsewhere, one wiggling inside of you while he tongued at your clit.   Your hips shifted restlessly beneath him.   You moaned as he pressed another finger inside.   You were seconds from coming when he paused again. 

“Wet,” he murmured, maybe to himself, stroking his fingers back and forth.    If he didn’t have a massive hard-on, you might have wondered if this even did anything for him.   He seemed to just use you as an opportunity for scientific discoveries.   Apparently, with Castiel, it would be both sex and discovery.     “Your muscles are tense,” he observed.  “Are you close?”  

You think you replied audibly, a helpless sound as you ground your hips against his fingers.   You just remembered nodding wildly.  

“Interesting,” he said, looking at your face as he drew his thumb hard against your clit and finished his motions there.   In mere seconds you came undone, shuddering beneath him, head tipping back, a broken moan parting your lips.   When you returned from your little spell, body labouring beneath a keen sensation of bonelessness, Castiel had lifted himself over you and peered down into your face.  “Was that satisfactory?” 

“Oh god,” was all you said.  You would have loved him if you didn’t know better.   Instead you pushed him over, shoving him onto his back.  You finally lay down the bed rightly, his head hitting the pillows as he flopped down.   He crossed a hand behind his head, the other reaching above him to grasp a bar in the headboard.   He stared down at you while you dipped your hands beneath his waistline, pulling the material down.   His chest rose and fell quickly, his silence overcoming him all at once.   You dragged the pants and boxers to his ankles then pulled them off.   You tossed them aside before climbing up his body.   His grip on the headboard tightened, his other hand running over your side. 

You mutely set to work, running your hands up his thighs and then lifting your hand to your mouth.  You weren’t counting on company tonight - hooks-ups on a first date were not usually your thing - and had no lube to soften your grip.   Preparing _you_ would be no problem but you licked your hand, attempted to wet it as best you could before slowly grasping him.   His hips lifted off the bed, thrusting his cock against your fists.   You curled your fingers around him, slowly pumped once then twice.   He breathed raggedly, a small noise flittering through the gasps.   His eyes opened and closed a few times.   You leaned down, swiped your thumb across the head of his cock, beads of precum running down your fingers.   His knee jerked but you lowered it, bending over him and carefully taking the head in your mouth.  

He relaxed into your actions immediately, moaning and closing his eyes.   He gripped the headboard even tighter, shaking it a bit beneath his grip, while his other hand wound into your hair.   His fingers tangled a bit painfully but you were happy to endure it, bobbing your mouth over his cock and stroking your hand along the rest of him.   He had considerable stamina considering this was his first time.   With that thought, you lifted your head.   His eyes opened immediately, a gush of desperate breath expelled. 

“Are you gonna come or did you want…”  You didn’t finish asking.   He seemed to understand.   It took him a moment to find his voice and when he did, it was strained.

“I think…” he said, gasping.  “I think I’m…”

You understood well enough, returned your mouth to his cock.   It didn’t take long for him to come, his cry surprisingly louder than yours as he thrust his hips forward.   You took some of him in your mouth, managed to swallow, but a bit of a mess was still made.   As he recovered, you climbed off the bed and went off in search of a cloth. 

“Are you disappointed?” he asked when you returned.   Your legs were still a bit wobbly.   You flopped onto the bed, lying beside him.   He took the cloth and wiped himself off.

“Disappointed?” you asked.   “Why?”

“We didn’t…”  He accidentally dropped the dirty cloth onto the floor.   He sat up to reach for it but you lay him back down, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, smiling.   He couldn’t help but smile back, his hand sliding over yours and holding it to his chest.   “And if you’re not going anywhere,” you said, tone a bit teasing, “there’s nothing to say this night is over.”   He grinned at that, leaned over to kiss you before you pulled back.   “Hold on.”   You left the bed again, gathered a bunch of chocolate peanuts and then returned.   You shoved them in your mouth and tossed a few at him.  He followed your example, both you giggling when they scattered a bit. 

You lazed about for a while, climbing under the covers and idly kissing.  You were a bit messy, room haphazard at the best of times, and he found a random bra tucked under a pillow.   You took it from him, throwing it off the bed.   You both laughed again. 

After some more time, you lay on your sides facing one another, covers drawn up to your waists.   He had his arm around you, fingers in your hair.   Your hands were on his chest, fingers gently opening and closing.   The kiss was slow, tender, but turned a little hungry after a moment.   The quietude simmered to life with something hotter.   Before you realized what was happening, his free hand slipped beneath the covers and went between your legs.   You squeaked into the kiss, hands sliding over his shoulders.

“Castiel—” you started, humming contently.   He swallowed your sounds with his mouth, kissing you as he rubbed his hand back and forth, fingers finding that earlier rhythm.   You soon came apart in his hand, kiss breaking as you gasped against his lips, grip tight on his shoulders.   You jerked a bit, the covers lowering to your thighs.   When he saw you retreated from your orgasm, eyes blinking, cheeks flushed, he traced his fingers up your chest.   “Did you want to—” you started, answering your own question by reaching low and taking hold of him.   He was already hard, stiffening further in your grip.   You stroked him a few times.   Before long, the covers were gathered at the foot of the bed and you had Castiel beneath you. 

You straddled his hips, reaching over the bedside to sift through the head-table drawer.   He watched, already breathless, eyes following every motion.

“Protection,” you said, not sure if his research ever led him to the safe sex talk. 

“Protection,” he repeated.   His furrowed brow confirmed your supposition.  “My angel blade.”   He said it so certainly.   You tried not to laugh but a stream of giggles poured forth anyway.   You found the condoms, tearing one off the strip. 

“Not quite,” you said.  “Unless you’re talking about a different angel blade.”   He looked at the condom, watched as you opened the packet. 

“I understand,” he said.  “I think.” 

 “We should be good,” you assured him.  You were on the pill but it was always a good idea anyway.   He watched as you rolled the condom over his cock, his breath stuttering as your hands moved.   You met his gaze thereafter, smiling gently.   “Ready?”  

He nodded, holding your hips tight as you kneeled over him.   Even if everything else faded from memory, you doubted you would forget his face once he was completely inside you for the first time.   He moved his hips beneath yours, his fingers digging hard into your hips.   You bit your lower lip, moaned as you took a second to adjust.  When you did start moving, he reacted immediately.  He followed you with his hips, eventually drawing back and then thrusting upwards.  You dropped down in accordance, drawing a low groan from him.   Your sounds were silent, mostly gasps which turned to pants as you continued.   You rode him slow at first, easing into it.   It was Castiel who began to pitch his hips with a little more urgency.  His eyes were closed but he opened them when you leaned over, kissing his chin.   He blinked at you and then looked down, staring at where your bodies met.  He made another low sound, thrusting his hips faster and even guiding you, hands clutching your hips and sliding you up and down. 

This continued for a time, then you found yourself on your back.   Castiel thrust above you, holding your thighs apart, his head against your chest.   He breathed hard, sound only overcome by the smack of skin.  You scratched his shoulder a bit too hard but he didn’t seem to mind, though he did suddenly bite yours.   You yelped, winding your legs around his waist. 

He didn’t last long after that.   You lay beneath his weight for a time, then had to roll him over because he was crushing you.  He apologized though he didn’t look that sorry.   It had to be well into the high hours of morning by then, dawn still a few hours off but yesterday long since passed.   Exhaustion seemed to overwhelm both of you at once.   You got up only to go the bathroom and then turn off the lights, stumbling back into bed onto considerably weaker legs.  You drifted off to sleep with a bit of space between you.   You lay on your front, Castiel his back, your hands meeting between you. 

You weren’t sure how much time passed but it was still dark when you woke next.   You wondered if you had rolled in your sleep or if  Castiel had relocated you.  Either way, you lay on your side, his front curved against your backside.   He had one arm tucked under his head, the other thrown over you.   He stirred when you shifted, incoherent sounds murmured sleepily at your ear.   You smiled fondly.   He woke a little surer, fingers stroking over your hips.   His mouth was soon at your shoulder, kissing up your neck.   He drew your hair aside to better kiss your skin.   You moaned sweet and low, rubbing your backside against him.   He reached behind himself for something.   Before you could blink, the strip of condoms landed on your pillow.   You grinned, rolling over and setting to work. 

Condom secured, he curved around you again, mouth settled at your throat and hands your chest.   You held onto his hands, parted your thighs as he pressed against you.   He used one hand to hold you there.   You weren’t sure you were flexible enough to stay in the position but you lingered for a moment, turning your face in the pillow as he thrust into you from behind.   You were noisier this time, a little sound at every motion.   You eventually had to roll over, fearing your leg would spasm from its position.   He let you go, following when you rolled onto your front and lifted your hips.   He kneeled behind you, hand reaching for your folds and parting you before his cock followed.   You grabbed a pillow and held it tight, directed your sounds there as he continued to fuck you from behind.   After a moment, you found yourself flipped around again.

“I like to look at you,” he said, brushing hair from your face as he filled you again.  His lovemaking was a bit rougher than before, a little more confident.  It thrilled every nerve and muscle, your body singing.   He practically had you against the headboard by the time it was over, your body folded nearly in half.   You loosened as he pulled back.   You flopped onto your stomach like a ragdoll.   You smiled drowsily.   “You didn’t finish,” he said.   By the proclamation, it sounded like a criminal offense.   Before you could assure him it was fine, his hand was between your thighs and you were careening to another height.  After it happened, you were exhausted to the bone, laying limp over the bed.   Castiel got up this time, throwing away the used condom.   When he returned to bed, he arranged you beneath the covers.   He pulled you towards him again, facing him this time.   You buried your face in his chest, smiling as you drifted off to sleep again. 

When morning finally dawned, your body thrummed with a thousand aftershocks.   You blinked open a sleepy gaze, found Castiel slowly waking as well.  You absently kissed the centre of his chest.   He stroked a hand down your bare back, fingers lightly skimming. 

“I like your tattoo,” he said after a moment.  You snorted with laughter.   He smiled and kissed the top of your head. 

It was really was a lovely moment—probably the best morning after you ever had.

At least until the door was kicked down. 

You yelped, grabbing the bed sheets and pulling them over you.   Castiel sat up quickly, immediately on the defense.   His posture slackened immediately though.  Yours did not.   You threw your gaze over the two men who had barrelled into your room.   They looked absolute furious though it gave way as quickly as Castiel’s ire.   At least one of them—taller with long hair—had the decency to look chagrined.   The other just stared at you and Castiel.   He then grinned, looking back at the taller one.

“Oh yeah,” he said.  “He’s really suffering here.” 

Somehow you instantly knew whose presence just graced you.

“Dean,” you said, then looked at Castiel for confirmation.   He nodded.   He was blushing, as were you.   You looked back at the Winchester brothers.  Dean wore an expression that spoke volumes of a proud father.   The second one, Sam you recalled, slowly took hold of his brother and led him away.

“Uh, we’ll wait outside,” he said, guiding Dean out the door.    They leaned it closed though now it wouldn’t lock, the handle busted.   You would have to get that fixed later.  

You and Castiel looked at each other.   You smiled at him, the gaze returned, yet with a twinge of obvious sadness.   You knew from the beginning he would leave.   You had no romantic notions whatsoever and yet you lamented the end of a moment.   You would have not traded that moment for anything but it conclusion still resonated.    All the same, you braved face and slipped from the bed. 

“Come on,” you said.  “Better face the day.”

You and Castiel dressed yourselves in the discarded clothes from the night before.   Once decent, the Winchesters were invited back in.   They explained how they had found Castiel—sort of.  The details were sparse and you weren’t sure if it was because of your presence.   Either way, they traced him to this complex where they thought he was being held by a reaper.   When they went to the address and found it empty, they scoured the neighbourhood for a trace of his potential whereabouts.

“We were hopin’ you got out okay,” Dean said.   He and Castiel sat on your couch.   You sat on a kitchen stool, keeping your distance.   Though your gaze did occasionally wander over to Sam.  He was saddled with the living room chair and he was about two sizes too big for it.   It provided marginal distraction in the face of farewells. 

“Did you just break down every door in search of me?” Castiel asked, not looking pleased with the notion.

“No, ‘course not,” Dean said.  “We asked around, though.   Some folks said they saw a girl bring up some weird homeless guy last night so we figured that’d be a good guess.”

“We thought you were the reaper, though,” Sam said, looking at you.   You shrugged.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you replied.

“Disappointment?”  Dean looked at you.  “Honey, you’re anything but.”

“Dean,” Castiel said sternly.   Dean looked at him, raised his hands in a sort of surrender. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, grinning still.  The exchange was a little bit amusing, you had to admit.   You giggled, watching them.    You thought a light flashed out of the corner of your eye but when you looked over, nothing untoward existed there.  Sam had straightened, though, dawned a strange countenance.

“Dean,” he said, tone peculiar.  “I must speak with you outside.” 

Dean’s expression changed a bit as well, looking at his brother.  Castiel looked at Sam and then Dean.   You were comforted by the fact he seemed confused as well.   Dean excused himself, both he and Sam retreating into the corridor.   Castiel watched them go and then stood up, looking at you.   You stared at one another for a moment.   The awkwardness of the morning after finally settled.   Though your morning afters didn’t usually entail two lumberjack-esque men and discussions of the supernatural. 

“Um, you know what, your clothes are still dirty.  The laundry room is probably unlocked so I’m going to go down there, clean them for you, and bring them back up.   That way you can settle whatever and then be on your way as soon as possible.”

“Y/N,” he said.  You weren’t sure you wanted to hear.   It was probably better if you just parted ways without an adieu. 

“I’ll be right back,” you said with a smile, gathering his clothes and rushing out the door.

You spent a while in the laundry room, pacing, biting your nails, waiting for the clothes to finish.   It gave you a breather.   You came to terms with the inevitable.   As likeable a presence as Castiel was, there was no future here and you knew it.   In fact, the more you thought about it, the less you desired that future anyway.   It did not entail lazy mornings and long nights—it was all reapers and angels and blood. 

But you thought about the city lights and you smiled.   You didn’t know what his future would entail but you were happy to provide one night of joy.   There would be reapers and angels and blood, but at least he did get a lazy morning and long night. 

And so did you.   You smiled to yourself at various memories, gathering the cleaned clothes and dumping them in a basket.    No, you would not exchange your memories for anything.    You maybe would have enjoyed a few more days but if you had to let him go, then you would.   By the time you reached your apartment, you were relatively braced.   

“—you came all the way here only to tell me I can’t go back with you?” you heard Castiel’s voice.

“Look, man, it’s… it’s really hard to explain…” Dean replied.   You waited on the other side of the door.   It was your apartment so the action seemed ridiculous but it sounded like they needed a moment.    “But you know that if the angels find the bunker, it’s gonna be one hell of a shitstorm.  We just can’t take that chance.   Look, I am _here_ for you if you need something.   You know that?   You just can’t stay at the bunker.”

“I understand, Dean.  I’m not angry.”  You could imagine Castiel’s face, sad eyes returned as he watched his friend.   Sure enough, he spoke again.   “I’m just… disappointed.” 

“I know, buddy.   But we can help you find a place and—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel said.  “I’ve already mapped out my travels for the next few cities.  I’d prefer to travel alone.”

“All right, man,” Dean said, voice quite soft.  “Whatever you want.”

The situation seemed resolved and so you entered, feigning ignorance.   You didn’t look at any of them, just strolled past with the basket.

“I have your clothes here, Castiel,” you said.   “You can change out here.   I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”  

You hoped they would be gone by the time you retreated.   Maybe it would be easier that way.    You stayed in the bathroom until you heard the shuffle of feet, the door open and close, then the silence of your apartment.   Breathing a shaky breath, you stepped out, expecting to be alone.

Castiel sat on the couch, looking sheepish.   He wore his own clothes, his shirt and jeans, with his jackets folded in his lap.   You glanced at the red hoodie which inadvertently started everything.  

“I… I don’t have anywhere to go,” he said.  “You’ve already done more than you should but—”

“Wait, what,” you interrupted, moving closer.  “But you told Dean—”

“I didn’t want him to worry,” Castiel said.  “He does that.”   He finally stood, meeting your eye.  “It will, hopefully, only be for a time.   I will move and  I will not—”

“Castiel,” you said, smiling gently.   He stopped talking.   “You can stay as long as you need.” 

You still knew he would have to leave eventually.   It wouldn’t surprise you when that day finally dawned.   But for the moment, things were bright—and their impact would illuminate the days which followed.    And you and Castiel smiled at each other, the city sounds outside your window, the promise of another day that might or might not be better than this one.    And you went into the kitchen to make some breakfast while Castiel cleaned up the mess in the sitting area.   And as you walked away, he spoke.

“Thank you, baby.”

You turned around, tried not to laugh.

“What did you call me?” you asked.   He stared at you, holding a bunch of empty chip bags.  His brow furrowed.

“Did I use the term correctly?” he asked. 

You just laughed.

“Yeah, baby,” you replied.  “Clean up and we can watch some tv.” 

He smiled.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

After Castiel, moving just made sense.  You weren’t tethered to a bonafide career, your friends in the city were reliable but replaceable, and familiar cafes and alleyways beckoned shadows of other times and other worlds.   You put your happiness and peace of mind first.   So you left. 

You and Castiel had only been together a few weeks— _together_ being a messy word saturated with intimate promise and possibility.  You two had certainly grown very close, though.   Things were always quite easy between you, natural and a little bit dreamy.   You always knew it was a well-crafted illusion.   People didn’t really live their lives this way, surely.   Affection was open and infatuation unspoken, the days idle but warm, nights long and short and everything in between.  

Though as you sat on a bus, bound for your hometown, you did stray into fond recollection.  While most days with Castiel seemed to be encased in a yellow glow, there were grittier hours.   Nothing ever reached the pinnacle of that first evening, the confrontation with a reaper who nearly claimed both your lives.  You were thankful to never come in contact with that aspect of his life again.   But the little grievances of everyday mortality reared their ugly heads.   It was the expected nature of life.   Humans were fleshy, bloody, weak, unfettered.   They doubted and they worried and they cried and they fought. 

And as it turned out, when you and Castiel fought, it was an absolute tempest.  

In all honesty, you couldn’t  remember how it started.   It was a simple catastrophe; he had probably left his clothes lying out or uttered a remark that was amusing on easy days but aggravating on stressful ones.   Either way, passive-aggressive commentary turned to snarking, snarking to bickering, bickering to arguing, arguing to fighting.   Then the foundation of your grievance fell apart and his distress shone through his anger. 

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.  Though you could see the sorrow amidst all the resentment, it only fuelled your petty anger.

“What!” you had shouted.  “Castiel, we’re just _fighting_.   This is—this is something humans do.   Haven’t you ever fought with someone before?”

“Yes,” he said, brow furrowed.  “Often.  Not to mention I was a soldier.”

“Not—not like that—”  You shook your head, closed your eyes and breathed out through your nose.  You were standing in the kitchen with a pile of dirty dishes around you.  You were already in sleep-clothes, old shorts and a t-shirt with no bra.  Castiel was on the other side of the island in jeans and a t-shirt.   It was all very domestic, right down to the spat.   Of course, such sentimentality evaded you that moment.   

You tossed down your dishcloth and marched around the island to meet him sans barrier.   His countenance was still frustrated and gloomy, features drawn tight.  He didn’t turn to face you, gave you his profile while he glared at the kitchen. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you snapped, kind words tumbling like daggers.  “But you need to pick up your slack!   You can’t just leave things to me and then bat your eyelashes and make me feel bad for not taking care of it.  That’s not right, Castiel!  It’s not fair! I know you’re still struggling but you need to learn or you’ll never—”

“I am trying,” he said, punctuating each word.  He whipped around to face you, a mighty wrath in his gaze.   You marginally cowered, found yourself fleetingly delivered to the memory in the alleyway.  He was an entity far beyond your comprehension, skills unimaginable and strengths unknown, even if it was all loosely packaged in a screwy human body.  “You think I don’t know about fair and unfair?  What is just about any of this?  I am aware of my faults and their source.   I am sorry to inconvenience you.”  The apology lost some of its sincerity with his biting tone.   Your alarm faded as quickly as it came.   Your chest swelled with breath as he stepped closer, vaguely attempting to intimidate with his height advantage.   The instincts of a warrior.  It didn’t work on you.  “I don’t know what else you would have me do.” 

Perhaps your ire faltered.  Perhaps his despair affected you.   Perhaps the mere sight of an ardent, heated, imposing Castiel was just _a huge freaking turn-on._      It might have been all three.  Either way, you swept towards him and surprised him with a hard kiss on the mouth.   He wasn’t expecting it at all, stumbled a bit beneath your sudden weight.   His hands encircled your wrists, your palms on his face, your teeth having slightly knocked as you caught his unsuspecting lips.   He pulled you back, looked at you confusedly for a moment.   You breathed out heavily, your eyes dark and determined.   His own expression darkened and then he was pulling you towards him.  

You crashed together in a mad tangle of passion and fury.   His hands found immediate purchase on your waist, sliding under your shirt and up.   You grabbed his t-shirt and tugged hard, breaking his embrace so he could pull the material over his head.   He tossed it somewhere behind him, neither of you minding its whereabouts as you came together again.   You ran your hands over his chest, a plane you had mapped out several times over the past couple weeks.   Your exchanges were often quite loving, occasionally intense but never so brusque as this one.   Your fingernails bit hard, scratching his skin, tweaking a nipple.  

His hands were roaming your lower back, outside the t-shirt.   Before you could really process what was happening, he ripped the entire back of the flimsy t-shirt in two.

“Castiel!” you exclaimed, breathless, breaking your kiss.   He looked at you with a challenging regard, daring you to admonish him for what he just did.   You did not disappoint, grabbing a fistful of hair and dragging his face towards yours.  He gasped against your lips, a slightly pained sound.   But no sooner had you asked, “is this okay—” was he tugging the torn garment off your body, pooling it on the floor before sliding his hands over your breasts.   You tightened your hold on his hair, directing his mouth lower.   He acquiesced to the direction, thumbs skimming the underside of your breasts as he set his mouth upon teasing ministrations.  You arched your back, eyes falling closed and little sounds tumbling from your lips as he rolled and pinched one nipple, kneading the breast then returning.   His mouth worked over your other breast, a moan at the back of his throat attesting to his own sexual frustration.  

“You’re not even sorry, are you?” you rasped, hands sliding over his shoulders as he lowered his head, swiping his tongue across your chest, down to your stomach, dipping it into your belly button before standing upright.

“No,” he said firmly, grabbing you by the hips and whirling you around.   You yelped in surprise but followed his course, your back against his front as you stumbled over to the bedroom area.   He drew you right to the edge, tossed you onto your front so you curved over the foot of the bed.  

“Castiel—” you began, your hips wriggling as your body craved attention.   No sooner was that single name uttered did he grab your hair, surprising you as he pulled your head back. 

“This is an unusual custom,” he said, indicating to hair-pulling as he wove his fingers through your hair.   You smiled in spite of yourself. 

“Yeah, but it’s sexy,” you said.

“Hmm.”  He seemed to agree, one hand roaming your side while his other tightened its hold on your hair.  

“I’m not hurting you?” he asked, his roaming hand quite soft.   But you did not desire soft right now.   His grip on your hair and the promise it entailed was much more tantalizing.   You thrust your hips back, rubbing your ass against his crotch.   He grunted, leaning against you. 

“No, it’s good,” you gasped, fingers curling into the bedspread, eyes closing.   You bit your lower lip as he rolled his hips against yours, that bulge in his jeans stiffening ever surer.    He pulled your hair again, tipping your head as your back arched, chest pressing into the bedclothes. 

“You’re not sorry either, are you?” he asked, voice dark and low.  You whined a little desperately, eyes still closed, bottom lip between your teeth.   He tugged your hair a bit harder.  “You should answer when you are asked questions.”  _God,_ you really should have brought out this angry warrior side before. 

“Not sorry,” you said, grinning.  He let you go and you flopped onto the mattress again.  You dug your fingernails into the blankets, moaning as he lifted your hips and tugged your shorts and underwear down.  You were naked, hot and wet and waiting, dropped back onto the mattress as he removed his own remaining clothes.    Though you were in the habit of using condoms, it had already faltered a couple times.  You were on the pill and you were both clean, Castiel obviously so, thus it had not proven a huge upset.  A second layer of protection was from far mind at that point, Castiel’s hands roving your backside.   You moaned again, his hand curving beneath you to reach the heat between your thighs.   You rubbed against him, so wet that you could feel the slick mark against your thigh.  He made a low rumbling noise, pleased, stroking his fingers with skilful ease—a deed you had happily helped him master. 

“So wet for me,” he muttered, driving you up the figurative wall.  This darker side of Castiel was inherent in his composition but it so rarely surfaced.   That was going to have to change, you figured, gasping as he thrust his fingers inside you.  He tilted your hips forward and back, made you ride his fingers for a minute.   Your hips still canted in slow, wanting motions when he pulled his hand away.  He dragged his hand over your rear, gently tugging the flesh.   Your next words fell free before you even considered them. 

“Smack me,” you murmured into the bedspread.   His thumb still swept the curve of your backside but he slowed in hesitancy. 

“You want me to strike you?” he asked, clearly confused.   You were about to explain—most sexual exploits had to be explained but they always proved worthwhile in the end—but then Castiel spoke again, nodding.   “I understand,” he said, hand running down your needy skin.   “Like the Pizza Man.” 

You knew the Pizza Man story well.   Though you began to wonder if every Pizza Man plot came from one saga or if _Pizza Man_ had simply become a code-word for all porn.   Either way, the Pizza Man, who was probably your second favourite man after Castiel, had clearly taught him well.   Though his first trial was tentative, his hand more swiping the cheek of your ass than smacking it, Castiel was encouraged by the little sound you made and delivered a harder blow.   You made a downright sinful noise, bucking your hips.    He grabbed one hip for purchase, your every muscle coiling in anticipation as he delivered another slap. 

“It’s turning red,” he said, kneading the flesh.  You pressed your thighs together and moaned.   He jammed a knee between your legs, parting your thighs again.  “I didn’t say we were done.”   Oh yes, you definitely loved the Pizza Man.   You keened, biting a bit of the blanket as he delivered a few more smacks to your rear.   He then all of a sudden spoke, voice a little less heady.   “Please don’t call me daddy,” he said like the thought just occurred, a memory that clearly did not settle well.   You giggled in spite of yourself, the interlude hardly appropriate considering your actions two seconds ago, but you couldn’t help it.

“Okay, deal,” you said. 

“Good.”  That accord satisfied him.  He smacked you again and you were writhing and hot like there was no interruption.   He alternated between smacking and rubbing the flesh, the contradictory sensations unbearably sexy.   Then his cock was nudging at your skin, his own hand running the length of it.   You better braced yourself against the blankets, yelped as he smacked you one last time before slipping a hand between your legs.   You mewled as his fingers parted your folds, your cunt aching for attention.   Your hair spilled over your shoulders as you tipped your head forward, back arching when he pushed into you. 

“Castiel,” you groaned.  “You feel so good…”

He pulled you towards him, sheathing himself inside you and drawing your hips to his.  You panted, scratched at the bedspread as he led the movement of your body along his cock.  You couldn’t see his face but could picture him just fine, lips parted, head tipped back, features tight in pleasure and need.  He drew back suddenly and slammed forward, driving you into the mattress with a startled squeak.   It quickly subsided for more desperate noises, repeating incoherently as he set himself to a rhythm inside you.   It still wasn’t enough to get you off, your clit swollen and fingers itching to take action.   You adjusted yourself a bit, still eagerly meeting his thrusts, dipped your hand low to rub between your thighs when he grabbed hold of both your arms.  

“Castiel…” you whined.   He paused, filling you completely, your cunt throbbing around him.   You shifted your hips, pressed your forehead into the mattress as he folded your hands against your lower back.   He held them there with one of his as the other settled on your hip again.   He resumed his earlier action, your body humming with helpless need.   Lifting your face, you tried to angle yourself to get better purchase against your clit but it wasn’t enough.   You panted, sweat breaking across your back, and simply met his pounding thrusts for a delicious if not excruciatingly long moment.     

“Do you want to come?” he finally asked.  It was the first time he said come instead of orgasm, his usual word—which you granted was better than climax or release or anything abnormally scientific.   All the same, it had immediate effect, a tremor running down your back as you nodded as best you could.

“Yes,” you pleaded.   “Yes, please.”   

He let your hands go and one immediately found your cunt, rubbing hard over your clit.   You came in no time at all, crying out as you clenched around him.   The suddenness must have taken him off guard because despite the general security, when in absence of a condom he always pulled out before coming.  It was at your behest and he was dutiful.   But he came hard and fast, filling you and sending you both careening against the mattress with long, low groans.  You were still wandering down from your own height when he finished.

You had lain there for a moment, Castiel on top of you, crushing you as usual.   You wiggled your shoulders and he took the hint, climbing off of you.    He stood for a moment, ran his fingers through his messy hair before sitting down on the edge of the bed.   It took you a long time but you somehow managed to turn over, pushing yourself onto your knees.   The first thing you did was lean over, catching his mouth with yours.   He returned the kiss with vigour, brushing hair off your face. 

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, never short of praise.   You smiled and pecked his lips. 

“You’re not too bad yourself,” you said, earning a smile in return.   He also pecked your lips, then leaned back and looked at you curiously.

“I did… everything correctly?”  He paused, considered, then spoke in a low voice.  “Like the Pizza Man?”  You giggled, sidling up behind him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“Better than the Pizza Man,” you promised.   Something else came to his mind, his hand folding over yours as he turned his head.

“We were careless this time,” he said, blushing a bit.   Amusing considering his position not long ago.   But you found yourself blushing as well, untameable thing that it was, but you just kissed his cheek and smiled softly.

“Don’t worry,” you said.  “I take a type of protection.  I’ll make sure to take extra precautions in the morning, though.   Nothing to worry about.”

That was a couple months ago now. 

Your hand settled over your stomach.    Your pregnancy wasn’t showing but it was certainly real.   As it turned out, you didn’t take the precautions you should have.   Contraceptives were not always totally full proof and your occasional absent-mindedness probably didn’t help.   You tried to be careful but you supposed it possible that you missed a day or two in your pill.   However it happened, you came to the very firm conclusion that a condom would have been good idea after all. 

And yet… you felt a sort of peace.  A sort of elation, really.  You were homeward bound, set to begin a new chapter of your life.  Your parents were aware of your return but not so much the pregnancy.   Your parents had a considerable wealth behind them, something you never wanted to rely on, but in your upcoming condition you anticipated their support.   You weren’t too sure how they were going to take the news.   Getting knocked up by a boyfriend you only had for a month or so and who you were unlikely to ever see again…

It had been a pretty shitty separation, to be honest.   It wasn’t even a face-to-face goodbye.   After spending some time with Dean who occasionally popped in, Castiel had made some mention of praying and heaven, talked a bit about things you didn’t fully understand.   Something must have happened because when you returned from grocery shopping, the front of your apartment was wrecked and Castiel was gone.   He did not return that night or the night after.   When a solid week had gone by with no reappearance, you could only assume the worst and hope for the best.  

He was the sort of character meant to serve in great epics.   He was probably out there slaying bad guys at this very moment.   You hoped he was not dead, though you somehow knew was not.  But maybe that was a romantic fallacy.    Either way, you had hope for him.  The angel who even as a man was something a little bit more.   

And even though he was gone, you did not feel so alone.   Your family was supportive and loving and they proved a good source of company, your old friends reacquainting themselves when you returned to town.   But you had a piece of Castiel too.   Honestly, you had the biggest piece of another person that anyone could possibly have—a whole other _human_ growing inside of you.  

And yes, you were in a flux of emotional turmoil.   Your raging hormones did not help matters.   Some days you were bliss itself, happy, content, your pregnancy swelling and your future unfolding before you.   And some days you were distraught, touching a hand to your stomach and wishing for things that could never be.    Even if Castiel wandered back one day, it would not be to stay.  It would not be like the movies.   Though when you thought about it, you didn’t care.   You rather liked the idea anyway.   But it was not meant to be and you were a grown woman, soon to be a mother, so you packed those thoughts into little boxes and stored them in the back of your mind. 

You had a little girl, in the end.   She was so beautiful, possessing your lips and nose, Castiel’s incredibly blue eyes.   You wept when holding her for the first time, looking into a gaze you never thought you would see again, but recognizing all at once a new one stared back at you.  

It was everything you never knew you wanted. 

* * *

 

A few years passed. 

You took up work in the family business, lived on your parents’ estate because it was convenient.   You had friends and even a couple boyfriends.   You had your fun with them but it was never quite what you wanted, never quite what you needed.   And you were happy to step back, focus on family.   In this respite, you realized that was what separated Castiel from others.   Somehow, in that fleeting time you knew him, he managed to make himself family.  That sort of intimacy and friendship was irreplaceable.   You missed him because you were only human but you were happy with your life.  You bestowed your daughter with a name you loved and hoped she would too.   She loved the outdoors, the stars and the clouds.   She was usually in the garden, chasing bumblebees until she knew better, picking weeds instead of flowers and presenting them like they were the most beautiful thing in creation.   When she was born, the doctors had told you that blue eyes were a common feature in newborns; they would probably darken over time.   You knew they were wrong.   That gaze remained blue as ever.   She kept you smiling better than anyone.

And so time passed thusly: work, friends, boyfriends, parents, daughter.   You ate out, you ate in, you went to parties, you curled up in front of the tv, you went swimming in the pool out back and you taught your daughter how to doggy paddle.   She was strong and capable with most endeavours.   Things were quite routine—not unpleasant but docile all the same.

Then one night you heard an unusual sound.   You were a light sleeper, an effect of motherhood.  Your daughter’s bedroom was down the corridor, your parents on the other side of the house to afford you privacy.   For a moment, you thought the sound was your daughter.   She was only three years old and prone to nightmares like any child.   She was a brave little thing, though.  She did not often run to your bed so on the rare occasion she did, you accepted her company.

But the bedroom door had not opened.   The sound which disturbed your slumber sounded like fabric fluttering.   In all technicality, it sounded like a bird beating its wings.   But that was ridiculous.   Your windows were barred and you highly doubted a magical bird had materialized in your bedroom. 

You would laugh at your own phrasing in retrospect.   Magical materialization was basicallywhat happened. 

You reached for the bedside table and flicked on the lamp, casting a small yellow glow in the dark room.   You squealed, swore the beginnings of cardiac arrest when you saw a person standing there.   But as your alarm faded, your senses cleared.  You lowered your hands from your mouth and stared in gaping wonder.   Castiel turned his head down, a determined glance transforming to something more tender.    

“Castiel…?” you asked, soft as if a loud query could shatter the moment.   You wondered if you were dreaming.

“Y/N.”  That _voice_.   It was everything you remembered and more, that scraping tone now laced with something substantial.    You looked him over.   He looked so different than how you remembered yet exactly the same.   Same blue eyes, same ruffled hair.   But he was dressed in a way that was foreign to your eyes.   You had only ever seen Castiel in t-shirts, jeans, sweats, and hoodies.   He stood before you now in a full suit with a beige trenchcoat drawn overtop.   He wore a blue tie but it was backwards.   It was a surreal moment not just for the hour and waking mind.   Castiel was like every memory manifested again and yet he was completely different.   You could feel it in the air like lightning crackling, pouring around him, permeating the mortal space.  

Your heart raced, your throat drying.  You clutched the bed sheets so hard your knuckles whitened.   Castiel tentatively approached, looking a little sheepish and amorous all at once. 

“I’ve looked for you,” he said with a little sigh.  “I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”  

 “I’ve been here,” you said, voice still weak.  “Where have you been?” 

He glanced away.   His shoulders seem to buckle beneath an unseen weight, his eyes even heavier than you remembered.   The old Castiel had wiled many hours attempting to make sense of his situation and the oncoming days.   This Castiel understood everything around him and that seemed to be a bigger burden.  You stared as helplessly as he felt.

“Everywhere,” he said.  “Heaven and earth.  It’s been… a long journey.”

You pat the bed.  It felt natural and logical.   He looked at where you gestured and then met your gaze, hopeful and wary all at once.   You smiled gently, a little watery.   He approached.   You did not know if it was his divinity or your mortality which sent electric currents firing in the space between.  It simmered hotly as he neared, seating himself on the bed .   You sat cross-legged with the blankets drawn over your lap.  He sat just opposite of your knees, his feet touching the floor, his eyes cast over the room.   He gave you his familiar profile as he looked around. 

“This is your home now,” he said, looking at you again.   You swallowed as that gaze fell upon you.  “It’s big.”   You laughed but unfortunately the crack of emotion, even a happy one, seemed to unlock those boxes tucked in the back of your mind.   A few tears fell and you dropped your gaze to your lap.   Castiel reached a hand towards you and then retracted, thinking better.   “I am sorry,” he said.  “It was not my intention to leave the way I did.”

“It’s okay,” you said, wiping your tears.   You breathed in deeply and lifted your head.  “I always knew it was going to happen.   I just… I’m really glad to see you again.  See that you’re okay.” 

“I am here again,” he said, smiling a gentle grin of solace.  He tipped his head as he looked at you.  “And I am okay.” 

“I’m glad,” you said, wiping your face one last time.  “I bet you have quite the story.”

“To say the least,” he said dryly.  You laughed again and he smiled warmer.  “But I came here for you,” he said sincerely.  “I debated the prudence of visiting; I didn’t want to impose on you more than I have.  Especially after so long.”  He sighed a bit, looked away and then blinked at you.  “But I had to.   Or I wanted to.  I am sorry.” 

“Sorry?” you asked, leaning forward.  You placed your hand over his wrist.   He looked down at it and then at you.   “You don’t need to be sorry.  I already told you that I’m glad to see you again.”

“Yes, you did say that,” he said.  Your heart skipped a beat the longer he stared at you.   It was desirous and wanting but not demanding, not lecherous, not lewd.   He seemed content to just stare and in that moment you felt three years younger, sitting across a barely mortal man who couldn’t tell up from down.  Someone you taught the simplest things to: cooking, cleaning, checkers, kissing.  So much more than that as well.  Someone who experienced a stream of bad things and with whom you shared some of the happiest days of your own life.  He had left a bright mark in your memories and you realized you had probably done the same for him.  

He turned his hand beneath your hold, curled his fingers over your hand.  You looked down at the gentle grasp and then up at him.  He continued to stare though his brow furrowed with fixated curiosity.  

“You are all right?” he asked.  “Your life.  You have not suffered for any reason?”  You smiled.

“Don’t worry, Castiel,” you said.  “I’m definitely all right.” 

“Then I’m glad.”  

You squeezed his hand.  He returned the motion but maintained it, holding your hand tightly.  It was almost embarrassing how your chest constricted and skin flamed, just holding his hand, the most innocent of bare skin contact.   You breathed shakily. 

“I have quite the story too,” you said.   He looked genuinely intrigued, squared his body to yours a little better. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

You faltered in your resolution.   He stared at you with an innocent gaze, curious and kind, even though he clearly laboured beneath much higher thoughts .   And _oh god_ , you had a daughter.   You had _his_ daughter.   The daughter of the man he was, at least.   He needed to know, surely.   But this was probably just a quick visit.   He probably had so many things to do.  You couldn’t burden him with this, could you?   Should you?   But you had to?  Didn’t you?  

You procrastinated, gave yourself time to think.   You asked a question that was probably obvious but whose words needed explicit confirmation.

“Castiel,” you asked, “are you an angel again?” 

His expression fell into a stoic reserve, a sort of shield against your reaction.   He still held your hand tight, though.

“Yes,” he said.  “After many trials, I managed to restore my own grace.  It was complicated.  And the Winchesters had their cases as usual.   Many things have happened.”  

“You can tell me,” you said, genuinely wishing to hear his story.  He glanced away again, looking unsure. 

“It’s a very long story,” he said.   You shuffled closer, drew his hand onto your knee and held it with both of yours.   He looked there and then at you, corner of his mouth upturned.   “Where should I begin?”

“Anywhere,” you said.  “The night you left, maybe?”

Quite some time passed, Castiel sharing his story.  You interjected with the occasional question or comment but mostly let him speak.   You would hold his hand tighter during more intense accounts, your heart beating fast though the monsters were far from here.   It felt like that night on the rooftop long ago only so much more had happened.   He was not even that great of a storyteller, needed encouragement to even continue in some places, but you followed perfectly and it kept you on your toes.   You found that despite being an angel, he still uttered names with that powerful taste.   Someone named Gadreel, someone named Hannah, someone named Crowley.   And then Sam and of course Dean.  

And your heart melted at the way he spoke, so simply, with no decoration or artifice to his words.   But the way he spoke the names of the Winchesters, of his family, was so powerful and bright that you could feel the love emanating off of him.   He was not human anymore but he certainly felt the brunt of its core.   He felt things right down to the pit of his grace and it flowed outward, moving along those electric currents.  The mortal air was not pungent with celestial qualities alone but pure love which Castiel seemed to bear in multitudes—even after everything. 

And he looked like he wasn’t sure how you would react—even after everything.

But you smiled and he returned the expression, so unbelievably warm that you felt it in your body.  You held his hand tighter, wrapped both hands around it.   He had turned to face you throughout his story, shoulders squared to you, one leg tucked beneath himself.   It was a familiar position.   You had sat similarly before you shared his first kiss.   He had come a long way.   He was probably still going.   He would never be done.

“There are other people in this house,” Castiel said.   Your heart raced in fear that he _knew_ but he did not remark upon it, seemed oblivious to the details.   It took a minute to realize the true intention behind his comment.  His gaze flittered to your right.   You glanced there, saw nothing at first.   You had a queen-sized bed but only occupied the left side.  There was a gaping space beside you, the pillows neat and covers mostly intact save for where you had tugged them.  You were confused for a moment, glancing back at Castiel.   He lifted his gaze from that space and met your eyes, his regard almost shy.  

Then you realized he meant to ask if that space belonged to someone.   This house was big and there were people but he did not know the circumstances.   Anticipation stirred in your gut as you looked at him, heart racing as you considered why he cared if you had someone else.   You tried not to read into it.  He might have been curious as a friend.

“Yes, there are other people here,” you said.  There was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes but he smiled at you, nodding.   He outstretched his free hand and placed it over yours.   “It’s just family, though,” you said.   He blinked at you, awaiting elaboration.   You smiled.   “I’m not married, Castiel,” you said.  “No husband.  No boyfriend.  Just me.”

“Just you,” he murmured.  “There is very little that is _just_ about you.” 

Always with the praise.   Your heart melted all over again, like no time had passed at all.  The only indication this was a new day was how quickly you seemed to be hurtling head-over-heels.   You always tempered yourself but this time you could feel your heart’s wanderings.  You let go of his hands, clasped his wrist with one hand and reached for his tie with the other.   You fiddled with the knot, loosening it slightly.   You stared at the fabric while he stared into your face.   You met his gaze, a brighter sky blue than the royal-coloured tie, and your heart almost stopped. 

“Do you…” you began, voice breaking.  You cleared it, swiped your tongue to wet your lips.   His gaze dropped to the motion before returning and you decided _yes_ , angels were definitely still okay with this.   Still, you made an attempt to ask, nervous and excited all at once.   “Do angels… is it okay if I… if we…”   

He lifted one hand and cupped your face, thumb caressing your cheek. 

“My brothers and sister have proven to be agents of chaos more than devotion,” he said, then reconsidered.   “Or at least their devotion is misplaced.”   He centred his gaze on you, dropped his hand to your shoulder and stroked his thumb over your throat, circling your pulse point.   You swallowed.  “I have no relation to their order now...  If you want worship, I’ll show you.”   That was an incredibly well-crafted phrase of seduction.  Your surprise must have been evident because he looked embarrassed.  “Dean provided me with that expression.”

You laughed vivaciously, slapping a hand over your mouth so you didn’t make too much noise.  You were fairly isolated on your side of the house but precautions couldn’t hurt.  

At _that_ recollection, you paused. 

“I don’t have any contraceptives at all,” you said.   Your sexual activity had dwindled in the past few months save for anything self-administered.   It had not proven necessary. 

“Y/N, I’m an angel,” he said, running his hand down your arm.  “I’ll give you anything you want with no repercussions.  If there _is_ anything you want.”  

“You,” you rasped, heat pooling rapidly at the very thought.  “Oh god, _you_.” 

You shifted onto your knees, shoving the blankets down.  They shaped between your bodies, squished between his knee and yours.   You wore a loose black sleeping dress, the sleeves thin for warm summer nights.   One strap slipped off your shoulder but you paid it no mind, your hands settling on his shoulders.    With a blink, his shoes and socks were on the floor.   He swivelled so he sat cross-legged in front of you, his hands reaching out to seize your waist.   He drew you forward, over the barricade of blankets and into his lap.  You straddled his hips, gasping against his mouth as you lifted onto your knees and inclined your head over his. 

“I’ve thought about you,” you said, running your hands over his neck.   His hands slid up your thighs, under the material of your sleep dress.   His breath hit your jaw, warm and sweet.   You supposed angels did not breathe in usual circumstances, meaning you had rendered him to an almost human state just by the promise of moments to come.   A low sound hit the back of your throat, one unused for some time. 

“Thinking about you would get me in trouble before much else,” he said, confession more honest than attempting to be sexy.   “The time was apparently inappropriate.”

“What time was that?” you asked.   His hands skimmed over your hips, thumbs hooking the straps of your underwear and dragging them down your thighs.

“Often,” he said, voice dropping even lower.  “Too often.”   When he realized you would have to sit back to remove your underwear, he simply snapped the sides and tossed it away.  You gasped in faux-audacious retaliation, slipping your fingers into his hair and tugging his head back.   He looked at you, eyes dark, lips wet. 

“You always were bad for ruining my clothes, weren’t you?” you murmured.   He slid his hands up your thighs again, thumbing circles on your hips. 

“I can’t taste food,” he said.  “Their molecular configuration is overwhelming, the sum of their parts unfortunately lost to my senses.”  You wondered why he mentioned this now, your mouth wanting nothing more than to find his, but you listened as he lowered you into his lap, his hands skimming the outside of your dress.  He caressed his hands over your sides and around to your back.   “Many of the pleasures I discovered as a human were, unfortunately, under-or-overwhelming as an angel.  There was only memory that carried the same weight,” he said, voice dropping lower, quieter, his mouth moving against your shoulder as he lowered the other strap of your dress.   The garment slung low, barely covering your chest.   He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against your throat, groaning like a man given the taste of water after years in a desert.   His hands bunched the dark material at your waist, holding you tight as he trailed his mouth over your collarbone.  “The one thing,” he said again, rasping, “and I’m unsure if it’s an anomaly or latent gift from an otherwise absent father… but thinking about you always had the same effect.”  He pulled the front of the dress down, your elbows caught in the straps.   You managed to hold his shoulders as he bent forward, your eyes closing and breath running shallow as he kissed down your chest.  “It’s been the one constant sensation,” he said, running his hands down your thighs to your knees.  “Thinking about being inside you again,” he practically growled, grasping at your dress once more, “was the greatest torment I still took pleasure in.” 

“You need to stop asking Dean for sweet-talk advice,” you gasped, finally pulling your arms free of the straps.  “You’re much better.” 

“That wasn’t sweet-talk,” he said firmly, blinking up at you.  “It’s experience.”   You groaned, leaning  forward and pressing your forehead to his.   Your eyes closed for a moment, relishing in this simple intimacy, his hands on your bare sides, thumbing the underside of your breasts, your hands on his shoulders and his breath against your lips. 

“I need you inside me right now,” you finally whispered.  “And I need you to kiss me.”

He wasted no time at all, lifting his chin and kissing you hard on the mouth.  You returned the kiss, helped him pull your dress over your head and toss it aside.  The kiss broke for that fleeting second and then resumed.   When you put your hands on his shoulders, he placed a hand over yours.   Before you could blink, his clothes were gone and he was totally naked beneath you. 

“Whoa,” you said, the feeling of his bare skin sudden and hot.    “That’s a neat trick.” 

“We can be slow another time,” he said, the very utterance of _another time_ dampening you further.   There would be countless times if you had it your way.   You hummed low, pressing your body close to his as he slid a hand between you and stroked the apex of your thighs.   No one else knew the exact right way to work your body.   The fact you had taught him most things might have helped.  He adapted all his motions based on your reactions.   He probably knew your body better than you did, finding all those ways to drive you mad that you had almost forgotten. 

“Castiel,” you gasped into his mouth, his hand delivering you to the cusp of an orgasm when he then thrust inside of you.   You moaned, dropping your head to his shoulder and digging your fingernails into his arms.   You clenched around him, the feel of him where you needed reaching the pinnacle of familiarity.    This was still Castiel.   You found him perfectly in this moment, no clothes, no distractions, just his body and yours.   You did vaguely recall that it was a vessel, or at least a recreation of one, but the way he fell in time with it and the way he joined you to him, it erased all those details for now.  This was beautiful in all its passionate, desperate, sexual glory.   And your heart could have exploded for fondness and adoration. 

You came first, falling apart quickly, head thrown back as he guided you over the length of him.  You better braced your body and rode him surer, holding his shoulders tight as you brought him to that same height.  He cried out, more open and audible than you recalled, crashing his forehead into your chest as hips bucked for a few slower measures.   Then you stilled, your arms around his neck, his forehead against your shoulder, his arms around your waist.   He went softer inside you, your legs hooked around him.   You panted and sighed as he repositioned himself, pulling out, laying you on your back.   He fell perfectly into the empty space at your right-hand side.   He pulled you flush against him, your back to his front, his arms around you.   You turned your head and kissed him languidly, suddenly exhausted to the bone.   You hadn’t checked the time when he first appeared but it had been a while.   You did need to sleep.   You, after all, were still human. 

“You should sleep,” he said, sensing your weariness.  Your head lolled, eyelids fluttering.   He kissed your temple.   “I’ll be here.”

“Good,” you murmured.  “I have someone important for you to meet tomorrow.”   You had a realization with that promise.   “Can you lock the door from over here?”   You didn’t exactly want your daughter wandering in to find a very naked man spooning you. 

“Of course,” he said.  There was a faint click in the quiet.   “Sleep.”

You fell asleep easy and fast, the best night of sleep in a long time.   When dawn arose, you had rolled onto your back.   Castiel had thrown a blanket over you at some point but he was lowering it now.  He lay on his side, fingers skimming your breast, down your side. 

“Good morning,” you murmured. 

“Yes,” he sufficed to reply.   You laughed.   Some things really hadn’t changed.  “Apologies.  Good morning,” he returned.   You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and blinked up at him.  He smiled softly at you.  You returned the expression, tracing your thumb over his bottom lip.   He kissed the digit and you bit your own lower lip.   He leaned down and kissed the corner of your mouth, then chin, then shoulder.   It took a minute but you realized his purpose. 

“Castiel…” you murmured, knowing your daughter and parents would be waking soon.   But he drew the blanket away and kissed down your stomach, pausing momentarily over the faded scar from so long ago, then moving determinedly lower.   You surrendered to the sensations, figured you deserved it.   Castiel parted your knees and hooked them over his shoulders.   As far as good mornings went, it was the best in a while.   He licked and kissed and sucked with perfect verve, nipping at your sensitive inner thighs, right over the tattoo that used to drive him mad, before returning.   You were in the middle of gasping, threading your fingers through his hair when there was a knock at the door.

“Y/N?” your mother asked.  The doorknob jiggled.   “Why is this door locked?” 

Castiel looked up from where he lay.  You would have laughed if your body was not in complete anguish. 

“Uh, I’m getting ready.  Just give me a—” Before you could finish your sentence, Castiel had cheekily resumed his mission.   You all but screamed the word, “ _minute_!”

“Are you all right?” your mother asked.

“Fine! Fine!”  You tugged his hair, thrust your hips forward.  “Fine, fine, fine,” you murmured, eyes closing tight.   Your mother thankfully walked away and Castiel was a little more dedicated.  You crashed over an orgasm in no time, wound up laying there staring at the ceiling while he lay down beside you.   “I don’t even know what to say,” you said.   He seemed okay with that. 

You got up and grabbed your clothes, retreated to the ensuite bathroom where you tidied up a bit and got dressed.   You joined Castiel in the bedroom after.   He was dressed again, trenchcoat and everything. 

“You said you wanted me to meet someone,” he said, eyes on his cuffs as he arranged them.   He looked up at you expectantly.   “Someone important.”

“Right,” you said, gut twisting in knots.   He seemed to notice your strange disposition.

“Are you all right?” he asked, stepping closer.   You nodded vehemently.

“Yes,” you said.  “Yes, I’m fine.  I just…”   He tipped his head, looked at you curiously.   You let out a deep breath.   “I just hope you are.”   He seemed immensely confused by this.   Your heart hammered in your chest, a small fear that he would disappear if you so much as mentioned this news.   This was not a small revelation.   You granted he was an angel, probably thousands of years old, but this was still significant.    You knew _he_ would care, at least.   The fact he was worried for you now attested to that.    You took a deep breath, held his hands in yours. 

“You aren’t hurt?” he interrupted.  “Should I intervene?”  There was a pause. “Should I kick someone’s ass?” 

“No, no, no,” you shook your head.  If you weren’t so nervous, you might have laughed.   Castiel donning colloquialisms was always amusing.   But as it was, your mind was occupied.   “It’s nothing like that,” you continued.  “It’s just…  Castiel, I have a daughter.”   He looked surprised but clearly did not put two-and-two together.   You swallowed.   “ _Your_ daughter.”

His face transformed beneath a number of emotions.   He seemed to have adapted even more expressions since you knew him.   He was always learning.   He let go of your hands, took a small step back.   He frowned at the bookcase. 

“Protection is very important,” was all he said. 

He had not said anything too negative, was clearly surprised himself, but all the emotions of last night and the present caught up to you.   He realized you were crying before you did.   He moved back towards you, swept you into his arms. 

“Why are you crying?” he asked.   

“I don’t know,” you said.  You were going to get his fancy trenchcoat all snotty.   Though he could probably clean it with a glance.    You lifted your head, sniffling.  “Sorry.  I just...  It’s a lot.   It’s a lot for you to take in. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, frowning.  “There’s nothing to apologize for.”    It was quiet for a moment.   He still held you loosely though his mind clearly wandered.   He met your gaze after a bit.   “What’s her name?”    You told him the name and he repeated it softly.   You then saw the faintest trace of a smile.   “Yes, that’s a good name,” he said.  Your thundering heart had not relented but a warm blush spread from your toes to your head as he leaned over and kissed you gingerly.   His nose lightly bumped yours, making you smile as he pulled back.   He had questions, you could see, but you replaced them with one of your own.

“Do you want to meet her?”

 

* * *

 

You weren’t sure what you expected.   This was probably right, though.

“He’s a bit unusual,” your mother said.   You and your parents sat on the veranda overlooking the garden and pool.   Castiel was wandering around after his daughter, not saying much but paying ardent attention to everything she had to show him.   You doubted your daughter truly grasped the weight of the situation but she seemed to immediately understand Castiel was family.   She held his hand and dragged him all over the garden, picking up weeds and rocks and shoving them in the pockets of his trenchcoat.   You smiled to yourself, pinched your arm a few times because you were convinced this was a dream.  

“Yeah, a bit,” you said.   Your parents really had _no idea_ how unusual Castiel was.   You weren’t sure when to reveal the angel thing, if ever, but today was certainly not the day. 

“I like him,” your father said.  “Sharp dresser.”

You giggled.  Castiel went chasing after your daughter when she ambled towards the poolside, teetering precariously close to the edge.   He picked her up and deposited her a few feet away.    He wasn’t very good at carrying toddlers, relocated her like a sack of potatoes.   He seemed a bit confused by everything happening but he also seemed very fond, even happy. 

When you first introduced them, your daughter had stared at him with a very dark expression.   Her eyes were narrowed.  She and Castiel tipped their heads at one another.   She eventually decided he was a suitable Dad, a word that didn’t mean much until this point, but she understood the gist of his purpose.   She held up her arms and Castiel looked at you in wonder.  

“Pick her up,” you had told him, giggling a bit madly.   He looked back at his little girl and tentatively approached, holding her under her arms and lifting her into the air.   He held her at arm’s length and they continued to stare at one another.   It was she who brought them closer, reaching out and grabbing tufts of his hair.   She tugged his face near and pressed a kiss onto his forehead.   Castiel seemed to melt immediately.   He was en route to the dictionary definition of _wrapped-around-her-little-finger_.   If there was ever a whipped father, it was this supernatural entity who was enslaved by nothing but a pair of small blue eyes. 

Your parents fell into conversation about one thing or another.   Castiel, seeing they were distracted, discreetly turned to your daughter and opened his hands for her.   He held a weak little bird but with the faintest touch, it flew from his palms and into the sky.   Your daughter clapped wildly, bouncing around.

“Castiel,” you scolded good-humouredly.   He looked back at you, expression sheepish.

“Castiel,” your father said after a bit, pensive.   “Religious name, isn’t it?  He’s not in some sort of cult, is he?  You did say his work kept him away.”

“It’s not a cult, Dad,” you replied, grimacing inwardly.  Well, it wasn’t a lie.   The forces of heaven, strictly speaking, were not a cult.   “And he’s not as religious as his family would have liked,” you said, grinning at your own phrasing. 

“Rebel, is he?”  your father asked.

 _You have no idea_ , you thought, watching an angel with his human daughter.  You marvelled at the patch-work masterpiece of this celestial warrior with an almost human heart.  

And Castiel would leave again and he would return again, off and on, but you knew he had an important life outside of you.   You had a life outside of him too.   Honestly, you would not change it.   You wished he could be in safe situations, of course, but you knew that Castiel doing anything less than protecting mankind would undo his very nature.    And you loved his nature.

You really did.

* * *

 

Sam and Dean showed up on your doorstep about two weeks later.   They were the only people who really knew about you.   Castiel had warded your house and family with countless charms and protections just in case but for once your commonplace humanity aided you.   No one had even taken note of your appearance in his life.   You were glad for it.   It kept you safe, your family safe, and it even kept him safe.   It gave him a respite, a sanctuary, a haven amidst so much turmoil.   He popped in every couple of days, sometimes for an hour, sometimes a few minutes.   He promised to visit longer after concluding his current affairs.   You sometimes enquired after them.   You mostly trusted him and left him to his devices.    You figured it was probably better if you didn’t know, anyway.

Sam and Dean were Castiel’s family.   Honestly, you were surprised it took them two whole weeks to visit once they learned he had a daughter.   You weren’t exactly shocked to open the door and find them loitering on your front porch.   They were too tall for the doorway, did not match the marble and lace strewn about everywhere.  It only made you smile fondly.

“Hello, boys,” you said.

“Heya, Y/N,” Dean said.   You were more familiar with him given he had visited Castiel more often back in the day.   They were incredibly close.   If angels had souls you might have called them soul mates, bonded across a chasm of time and space, rendered family by consequence of tragedy and war.   You liked when Castiel talked about Dean—Sam too.   Besides your daughter, nothing seemed to make him happier. 

“You want something?” you asked.    Dean tried to act casual.

“Oh you know,” he said, idly parting the air.  “We were in the neighbourhood.   Thought we’d drop by.   Check on things.” 

“Do you want to meet her?” you asked.   Sam and Dean looked at each other, grinned, and then looked back at you.

“Cas has a kid,” Dean said.  “You bet your ass we want to meet her.”

Dean was surprisingly good with her.   Your daughter liked him right away, proved her affection by drawing a lopsided flower on the back of his hand.   He ruffled her hair and complimented her, looking at you with a wildly entertained expression before following after her.   Sam lingered behind, laughing, chatting with you for a bit.  By the time your daughter and Dean wandered back over, there were little illustrations all over his hands and cheeks, not to mention he wore a paper crown on his head. 

“We slayed a dragon,” he said, shrugging.   You laughed, shaking your head.    Your daughter then waddled over to Sam.  The pair of you were sitting on lawn chairs by the poolside.   The low seat placed him at a vantage she could marginally reach.   Even then, Sam had to bend over when she stretched her arms high.   She wove a flower necklace over his head, the messy string falling over his plaid shirt.

“Thanks,” Sam said, smiling and kind if not apprehensive.   Your daughter just giggled, biting her thumbnail as she looked at him. 

“Sweetheart, don’t bite your thumb,” you said.   She ceased, leaning over and jabbing Sam in the chest.

“Mister Bear,” she said, then wandered away.   Dean frowned. 

“Why does he get to be Mister Bear?”  he protested.

“Why, who are you?” Sam asked, amused. 

“Princess Honey,” he said.   You and Sam both laughed, Dean grinning.  “Yeah, soak it up.  I’m willing to bet princesses have more fiscal input than bears anyhow.”

“Since when do you use the word fiscal?”  Sam asked. 

“Since the responsibility of a kingdom was placed on my shoulders,” Dean retorted.   You shook your head, vastly amused. 

Your daughter was quite despondent when Uncle Sam and Uncle Dean had to leave.   They promised to return sometime, given Mommy said it was okay. 

“As long as you don’t bring your work home with you,” you said, “you’re welcome to come back.”

“Good, I wanna try that pool,” Dean said.  Sam smacked his arm.   “Oh, ah, also thank you for the hospitality.”  Sam rolled his eyes.  You smiled at both of them. 

“Bye, boys,” you said.

“Bye, boys,” your daughter repeated, waving.   “Bye, Princess Honey.”

Dean wiggled his fingers.  Incredible to think finger-wiggling Princess Honey then climbed into a Chevy Impala and drove two states over to slaughter a vampire den.   Your life had taken a turn for the bizarre but you weren’t complaining.

* * *

 

Another week passed and then Castiel returned.   Your parents had gone into town with your daughter so it was just the two of you.   He wished to see the daughter you shared but his time was limited so he made use of it regardless.   You had tumbled into you bedroom only minutes after his arrival, his trenchcoat dropping, tie dropping, your jeans dropping, shirt dropping.   You did not make it to the bed.   He crowded you against the door, your hands on each other as you undid the other’s clothes.  Kisses were fast and wild, knowing your time together was limited.  You stood there in your bra and underwear, Castiel with his dress shirt unbuttoned and trousers undone.   He picked you up, holding you beneath your thighs as he pressed you into the door.   You both moaned as his hardness pressed at your warm centre, your own hands sliding down to your hips to grab your underwear. 

And then his hold suddenly slackened. 

“They’re calling,” he said.   You groaned.   You were okay with the fact he had to leave often but this was torturous.   “I will return,” he promised, kissing your temple, cheek, and below your ear.   He lowered you to the ground, returned you to a wobbling stance.   You slouched against the door, breathing hard.   Neither of you wanted to part but his resolve was strong. 

“I’ll be here,” you said.  “Probably finishing without you but here.”   He grunted, a low sound, swooping in to kiss you quickly. 

“This is very hard,” he said, then glanced down at himself.  “So to speak.” 

Castiel making a penis joke almost made up for the fact your lovemaking was interrupted.  Almost. 

* * *

 

It was another two weeks before he returned.   He apologized profusely.   You understood but dragged out your distress, your melodramatic spectacle lost on him.   When he realized you were teasing him, his gaze darkened even while he smiled.   Before anything else could transpire, your daughter came running into the room.   She was ecstatic to see him again, bumbling in her toddler voice to explain “the duck situation.”   There were no actual ducks on your property but she sometimes circled the perimeter of the vast yard, quacking as she went.   Castiel was happy to supervise, following her while she hopped around the yard.  

Your parents insisted he eat dinner with you.   You tried not to laugh as he swallowed the food in awkward chunks, attempting to bypass his taste buds.  You remembered what he said about molecules.   He was very polite, though.   He could pass as a human—a very strange human whose strength hugely exceeded his frame but a human nonetheless.   

It was late summer and your daughter wanted to “splish splash” after dinner.   Your parents stayed on the veranda while the three of you went to the poolside.   It was a bit of a funny sight, your daughter stomping around in a frilly one-piece with a giant duck floaty around her waist, you in a less modest bikini that you hadn’t a good reason to use until now, and Castiel in full dress.   He sat on a pool chair and watched you float with your daughter.   She made steamboat noises while paddling around in her duck. 

You sent her inside as the sun set, pale blue summer evening fading to a crisp orange.  The dark wash of night peeked just below the curtain of sun.   Your daughter was not happy to leave the pool, pouting while you carried her onto the deck and dried her off. 

“Say good night now,” your mother said to her.   Your father had gone inside and your mother was taking your daughter to bed, affording you some time with Castiel.

“Good night,” your daughter said, still bitter.   She ran over to Castiel and hugged him around the knees.  She looked much happier when she pulled away and you realized he had pulled a cookie out of somewhere and given it to her.

“Castiel,” you said, unamused.   He blinked at you innocently.    Your daughter ran past your mother and into the house before anyone could take her cookie.   You shook your head, smiling anyway.    Your mother bid you a good night and left as well.   Castiel stepped up behind you and draped a towel over your shoulders. 

“Are you going to bed?” he asked, innocent question weighing with less innocent intentions.  You turned your head and looked at him, grinning. 

“Hmm, no, I don’t think so.  It’s still early.”   You skipped around him, returned to the poolside.   He trailed after you, clearly debating whether you were teasing him or not.   He had gotten better at discerning your jests from sincerity.   He was fun to tease, at any rate.  You tossed the towel onto a pool chair then jumped into the pool, emerging with a hearty gasp and flattening your hair.   Castiel stood on the edge, staring down at you with a grey expression.   “What?”  you asked.  “Don’t angels swim?”

“There’s never been much reason,” he said.  “But yes, I imagine it’s more than plausible.  There will be a disparity in the sensation of the water, though, because of my grace, the displacement of hydrogen atoms—” 

“Castiel,” you interrupted, throwing him a look.   He came to understand that glance as _you’re rambling about things no one is going to understand again._   He closed his mouth, nodded once.   “Are you coming in or not?”

“I don’t have the appropriate attire,” he sufficed to say.   You swam a bit closer, lowered the straps of your bikini before pulling the top off, bottoms following soon after.  You gathered the pieces into a ball and hucked them at Castiel.   He caught them with an almost human clumsiness.    You giggled.

“Neither do I,” you said, kicking away.   His intimations were always well-shielded by a stern glance, the amusement and desire still stretched beneath it.   He raised his hand as if to snap his clothes away but you shook your head.   “Take them off properly,” you said, ducking a bit so the water rushed over your mouth.  You smiled, lifting your head again.   The cool water wrapping around you was a fair contradiction to the heat in your abdomen. 

Castiel hesitated at first, eyes narrowing as he considered submitting or cheekily disobeying.  He settled on the former, shrugging the trenchcoat down his shoulders and tossing it onto a chair.   You bit your bottom lip, watching delightedly.   He was hardly throwing himself around with dramatic hip wiggles but his gaze was intense, growing with obvious want, one eyebrow slightly cocked as he pulled off his shoes and socks then flipped off his suit jacket.   He loosened the tie and pulled it over his head, unbuckling his pants to untuck the dress shirt.    You watched button by button open, the strong lines of his shoulders and arms as he pulled the material down and off.   You made a show of dragging a hand over your shoulder, dipping it beneath the water and low on your body.   His eyes followed the motion and he shucked the trousers down, stepping aside before removing his boxers to reveal he was already half-hard. 

You drifted through the water as he waded in.   You watched him idly swirl his hand above the surface, the water spinning in a little flurry beneath.   You blinked there before looking up at him.   The water grew deeper, immersing him up to his shoulders as he moved towards you.   You swam away, moved in teasing circles for a bit before he caught you.   He grabbed your hips and dragged you back.  You squealed as he squished you against his front. 

“Got you,” he grumbled, kissing your temple.   You smiled, swivelling around to face him—

—and splashing him right in the face.  

He wasn’t expecting it, loosened his hold on you as he shook his head.   You darted away.   It was all fun and games until a small tidal wave collapsed over your head, throwing you towards him.   You burst out of the water, sputtering. 

“That’s not fair!  You can’t use angel power on me!” you exclaimed.   Castiel actually laughed, grabbing you and drawing you close again.

“You didn’t establish that rule,” he said.  “You should have thought harder.” 

“Harder,” you repeated, reaching down and holding his cock.   He grunted, his grip on your waist tightening.   You smiled again, leaning close to his mouth.  “What was that you were saying?”  

He did not answer your teasing.   He clasped his lips over yours, guiding your legs around his waist.  Your hands slid along his shoulders, fingers wetting his hair, your kiss a bit sloppy and damp.  But you smiled through it, rubbing yourself against the length of him before he pressed you against a wall of the pool.   With one upward thrust, he had filled you.   You gasped, clutching his shoulders, water falling around you as you tipped your head back.   He took that as indication to kiss your throat, down around your neck and onto your shoulder.   You knew pool sex could get a bit messy, slippery in not so fun ways, but Castiel was able to hold his ground perfectly, the water doing nothing but ease your way.   Pool water rushing intimate areas was often unpleasant as well but his angel senses must have manipulated the direct space.   Everything was pleasant and warm, his thrusts hard and deep.   He even bit down on your shoulder when he came.   The next thing you knew, you were sitting on the pool ledge  and his face was between your thighs.   You always loved the way he ate you out—like it was just as sexy for him as it was for you, like he really wanted to do it.   You lay back after finishing, chest rising and falling.   A faint breeze began to blow as evening settled.   You took that as your cue. 

“Come on,” you said, sitting upright again.   He lifted himself onto the ledge, knelt beside you.   “Still want to go to bed?” you asked.    He touched your shoulder.   Before you could blink, you were inside, dry, laying naked on your bed with Castiel straddling your hips.    “That’s one way to do it,” you said.

“You don’t mind my angelic attributes?” he thought to ask, leaning down towards you.

“Mind?” you repeated, hands skimming his sides.  “The opposite, I promise you.” 

He grinned.   You took a moment to revel in his many layers and sides before settling in the moment, meeting his kiss as he rolled over so you lay on top of him. 

-

And the years passed, more or less, in this habit.  Sam and Dean sometimes visited.  Your friends had no idea where this sudden influx of attractive men came from.  You just smiled and shrugged your shoulders.  Castiel dropped in as often as he could, sometimes visiting you, sometimes your daughter, sometimes both if the timing was right.  

You did eventually tell your parents who he was.   It was unfortunate timing, nearing the end of a life, but the pressure alleviated the weight.   All your father did was swear when he found out.

“I knew you were in a cult,” he said, but then he grinned despite his state.  “Pastor Jim owes me ten bucks.  Insisted angels were metaphorical.   Smug holy bastard.” 

When your daughter turned about twelve, you noticed an odd despondency in Castiel. 

“What is it?” you had asked.   He looked at you with a heavy, deep-rooted solemnity. 

“My vessel,” he said.  “A very long time ago when he still inhabited earth… he had a family as well.  A daughter.  The war affected many and I did not do my share to protect them.   I didn’t know then.   Many things… I didn’t know.”   All you could do was hold his hand because you didn’t know the depth of things he endured, knew only their relation.   That alone was a difficult trial.   You could only imagine how he felt—a being that was supposed to feel nothing but surpassed every threshold of human emotion, encompassing every drop.

Your daughter figured him out when she was about fifteen.  By then, you and her were the sole inhabitants of the house.  Castiel occasionally, Sam and Dean rarer.   Your daughter was a bit snarky, her humour dry, but she looked at her father one night at dinner.   Her eyebrow was cocked and she pointed to his empty plate. 

“You’re not human, are you, Pops?” she asked. 

It was an unspoken truth for a long while now.   Castiel just nodded, meeting her gaze squarely.

“I’m afraid not,” he said.  

“What are you?”

“I’m an angel.” 

Your daughter was very much like you.   Totally unphased, she went back to poking brussell sprouts.   Then she lifted her head and narrowed her eyes, an expression that made her look like her father. 

“Am I gonna have superpowers?” she asked. 

“No,” he replied, a little amused.  “I was human when you were conceived.”

“Figures,” she said, frowning.

When your daughter turned about twenty, it was you who became affected with despondency.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked, standing behind you while you looked in the mirror. 

“Nothing,” you said.  “Just… getting older.   You’re not.”

“I’m much older than you,” he said pointedly.  “Would you prefer I take an older vessel?”  

“I don’t mind,” you said.  “I should think you’re the one who’d want me different.” 

Castiel touched your shoulder, a strange warmth moving through you, like his fingertips drew threads of your heart.   You breathed a bit harder, the sensation rolling over you in waves as he kissed your temple. 

“I’m an angel, Y/N,” he said.  “I can see the faces of angels and demons—and human souls.   You’re as beautiful as you ever were.” 

Always with the praise.   You leaned into his embrace and sighed contently.

-

In the end, it was a strange life.   You truly forgot how life was supposed to be—if there was such thing as _supposed to be._    And some days it moved so slowly, some days quickly, some days in-between.    And then before you knew it, you were opening your eyes to a ceiling you had not seen in years, and when you woke up, you were in an apartment that you owned in your youth.   You climbed out of bed, your body somehow younger by many, many years.   You wandered through your apartment and into the corridor.   Everything was quiet, the general glow a bit white.   You made your way up the stairs to the roof.   You knew it was not really the same place as before because it was missing the fake _Keep Out_ signs. 

You pushed through and stepped onto the rooftop, did not hear the door close behind you but did not look to see.   A familiar trenchcoat-figure stood at the edge of the roof, looking over the night-time city.   There were no sounds of traffic and no breeze.   You could hear your own footsteps as you approached. 

Castiel turned around, smiled at you gently. 

“Hello, Y/N,” he said.  

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” you asked without hesitation.   He maintained his smile, nodding. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“And… heaven looks like the roof of my old apartment building?” you asked, looking around.  

“It looks like any memory you want,” he said.  “I hope it’s okay I visited.  I wanted to.”   You smiled in return, oddly at peace considering the circumstances.   You weren’t sure if that was your own resolve or a consequence of death.   Either way, you fell into tranquility.   Sounds of traffic began to stir faintly, a soft breeze kicking up.  

“So what happens now?” you asked.  

He just stepped towards you, put his hands on your arms and leaned over, kissing you on the mouth.   He bumped his nose against yours as he pulled away. 

“Thank you,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled again.  It seemed appropriate to feel choked up but something tempered your emotions, something in the breeze and quiet night-time city.   You held Castiel’s hands a moment as he pulled away.   You blinked and then he was gone.

“Why did you say your opinion doesn’t matter?”  A familiar voice echoed from a few feet away.   You glanced over, blinking confusedly when you saw Castiel—but a different Castiel.   He wore sweatpants and a t-shirt, was gazing in your direction, the breeze fluttering through his hair, his blue eyes lit by the cityscape.   “Of course it’s important,” he said.   It was then you recognized the full scene.   You wandered closer, inch by inch.   Castiel looked at the city again, then at you—or at an invisible you, standing where you had many years ago. 

“Do you have a long, sad story too?” he asked. 

Your words came back to you somehow.  You stood where you once stood, gazing at him.

“No, Castiel,” you said gently. “No great stories from me, I’m afraid.”  You glanced at the ever-turning city again. 

“I would like to hear them,” he said.  You looked at him.   He returned your stare.   “Your stories,” he clarified.   “If you want.”  

He took your hand which you didn’t remember happening before.   But it filled you with warmth and you smiled, the rest of the world fading away, leaving only this little bubble of space above a city. 

“Sure, Castiel,” you said.   “I’d love to.” 

As you fell into the unconscious living of the afterlife, a blissful, peaceful place, you did not notice the final regard of an angel standing a few feet off.   He was not human and not part of this story any longer.  Though it was within an angel’s power to manipulate a person’s heaven and intervene, it could prove an unpleasant affair for the soul, even when the cognizant moments were bright.   So he would return to earth to watch his daughter until her time passed as well, then he would continue his own story as it never truly stopped. 

And there was peace in his heart as he left you on a rooftop with a good memory, the only way he could truly pay you back for your decision to buy lunch for a strange man in a red hoodie when you could have done anything else with your life.    

 

 


End file.
